Chapter 4
The penthouse apartment was silent, save for the rhythmic dripping of a faucet in the luxury kitchen. Marcus stood in the center of the expansive living room, still wearing his white tuxedo jacket with the black lapels, though the black bow tie was now undone and dangling loosely around his collar. The boutonnière had been tossed carelessly onto the marble coffee table beside a glass of amber scotch he hadn't touched.
The wedding gifts, neatly wrapped in silver and gold paper, sat piled in the corner like silent monuments to a day that had never truly happened.
Marcus picked up his smartphone from the counter, staring at the screen. The news alerts were already flooding in. Local financial blogs and gossip columns had picked up the story with sensational headlines: Tech Startup Founder Arrested at Luxury Wedding Over Multi-Million Dollar Fraud. Photos of Maya in her lace gown, handcuffed and weeping, dominated the digital feeds.
His phone buzzed violently in his hand, startling him. It was a call from his father, the senior partner at a prominent corporate law firm. Marcus swiped to answer, pressing the phone to his ear.
"Marcus, son, are you alright?" his father’s voice boomed through the speaker, filled with stern concern. "We saw the reports. The firm's PR team is already working on a statement to distance our family name from this entire catastrophe."
"I'm fine, Dad," Marcus replied, his voice flat and exhausted. "Just processing everything."
"You need to cut ties immediately," his father instructed without hesitation. "No public statements, no visits to the precinct, nothing. If her fraudulent shell company has your home address listed, our real estate assets could be frozen by the federal investigators by tomorrow morning."
Marcus rubbed his temples, feeling a throbbing headache building behind his eyes.
"She claimed she was being set up by Julian," Marcus said quietly, almost testing the words out loud to see if they held any weight.
"Of course she did," his father scoffed on the other end. "Every white-collar criminal plays the victim when the net closes in. Marcus, listen to me. I reviewed the preliminary documents your security team pulled this afternoon. The signatures on those asset transfers are airtight. She used your personal credentials while you were asleep to authorize those lines of credit."
Marcus froze. He remembered those nights—working late on joint investments, leaving his laptop unlocked on the kitchen island while he went to brew coffee. He had trusted her completely. The thought made his stomach turn.
"I need to go down to the precinct and look at the physical files myself," Marcus said stubbornly. "I need to hear it from her, face to face."
"Are you out of your mind?" his father snapped. "If you insert yourself into this investigation now, the press will crucify you. You’ll be treated as an accomplice."
Before Marcus could argue further, a sharp knock echoed loudly against the heavy front door of the penthouse.
May you like
Marcus walked slowly down the hallway, peering through the security peephole. Standing outside in the dim corridor was a delivery courier holding a plain manila envelope with no return address—and scrawled across the front in messy, rushed handwriting was his own full name.
***
