Chapter 3 - The Severance of Wolves
Richard stood entirely motionless, as if a sudden blast of arctic wind had crystallized his veins. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. The smooth, charismatic orator who had charmed Wall Street analysts was reduced to a stammering ghost.
"That's impossible," he croaked. "Daniel wouldn't file without a full evidentiary hearing. You need proof, Clara! You can't just throw wild accusations—"
I didn't utter a word. I simply picked up the tablet resting on the desk, swiped the screen, and tapped the airplay button.
The seventy-five-inch high-definition monitor mounted on the mahogany wall flared to life.
The audio filled the quiet office with terrifying clarity:
*“Clara is a relic of the past, darling. Once the merger closes next quarter, her father’s legacy belongs to us.”*
*“You promise? She won't suspect?”*
*“She lives in a fantasy world. She suspects nothing.”*
The camera angle was crystal clear, captured by the high-resolution lenses hidden within the terrace sconces of the Plaza Hotel. It captured Richard kneeling, pulling the platinum velvet box from his breast pocket, and sliding a three-carat emerald-cut diamond onto Emily’s left hand. It captured their kiss—hungry, venomous, and prolonged.
Emily let out a sharp, choked sob and covered her face with both hands.
Richard stepped backward as if the screen had physically burned him. His eyes darted frantically around the room, searching for an exit, an excuse, a legal loophole, anything to salvage the wreckage.
"Clara... listen to me," Richard began, his tone dropping from arrogant defiance to frantic pleading. He reached his hands out, taking a cautious step toward me. "It’s not what it looks like. It was theater. A ploy. Emily and I... we were working on an acquisition strategy. I had to keep her close—"
"Save the performance for the divorce court, Richard," I said, my voice as level as an executioner's ledger. "The board of directors convened electronically twenty minutes ago. Unanimous vote. You are stripped of your title, your stock options are frozen pending a forensic audit, and your company credit facilities have been closed."
"You can't freeze my personal accounts!" he roared, panic shattering his facade. "My offshore accounts, the transfer accounts—those are in my name!"
"Those accounts were seeded with Scott Global assets under marital joint authority," I replied coldly. "Daniel froze every dollar that touches a bank with an American correspondent branch. You have whatever cash is in your wallet right now. Make it last."
The elevator doors chimed again.
Four burly security guards, led by Marcus, stepped into the suite. Behind them were two uniformed NYPD officers.
"Mrs. Scott?" Marcus asked respectfully.
"Please escort Mr. Vance and Miss Reed to the street," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on Richard. "If Miss Reed attempts to access her former office on the thirty-second floor, arrest her for corporate espionage."
"Clara! Don't do this!" Emily screamed, thrashing as a security guard took her by the elbow. "I'm your sister! Mom will never forgive you for this! You’re tearing this family apart!"
"You tore this family apart when you let my husband into your bed, Emily," I said without looking at her. "Get out."
Emily was pulled out, sobbing hysterically into the marble corridor. But Richard didn't fight the guards. He stood still as Marcus approached, his eyes narrowing into cold, poisonous slits.
"You think you’ve won, Clara?" he whispered, leaning close enough that I could smell the stale champagne on his breath. "You have no idea what you just unraveled. You think freezing those accounts protects your father’s empire? You just signed your own death warrant. The money wasn't just sitting there. You just cut off the life support."
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Before I could demand what he meant, Marcus placed a firm hand on Richard’s shoulder and steered him toward the waiting elevator.
The doors closed, leaving me alone in the cavernous office. But Richard's final words hung in the air like toxic smoke, chilling me deeper than his betrayal ever had.
