Chapter 4 - Unmasked and Cornered
"Get her!" Nathaniel shouted.
Two security guards tackled the fake bride onto the carpet before her fingers could graze the emerald. She thrashed violently, kicking and spitting curses, but Marcus swiftly pinned her arms behind her back and clicked steel zip-ties around her wrists.
"Her name is Vanessa Cross," Marcus announced after scanning her face with a handheld biometric reader. "Interpol red notice out of Zurich. International art and corporate espionage. Wanted in six countries for high-value identity theft and extortion."
"Search her fully," Nathaniel commanded, disgust dripping from every syllable. "And find out who hired her. Victoria Vance didn't have the brains or the connections to orchestrate an offshore crypto transfer of this scale alone."
Vanessa glared at Nathaniel as she was hauled to her feet. "You think you're untouchable, Nathaniel? You think you own this city? The Callaway empire has been rotting from the inside for years! You don't even know who your real enemies are!"
"Take her to the holding suite downstairs," Nathaniel told Marcus, completely unfazed by her threats. "Don't hand her over to the precinct until we know who her handlers are."
As security dragged Vanessa kicking and screaming down the corridor, the tension in the room began to settle, replaced by an awkward, suffocating hush. Hundreds of prominent New Yorkers stood among overturned tables, broken crystal, and destroyed wedding cake, unsure of whether to speak or flee.
Nathaniel turned away from the spectacle, his chest heaving under his tailored vest. The sheer humiliation of being deceived so thoroughly would have broken an ordinary man. But his immediate concern wasn't his wounded pride.
His eyes traveled across the ballroom and landed on his grandmother.
Eleanor Callaway was breathing heavily, her face pale, leaning back against the leather cushion of her wheelchair. Beside her, Rose was carefully using a clean linen napkin dipped in ice water to clean the small scratch on the elderly woman's neck where the necklace had been torn away.
"You're going to be fine, Lady Eleanor," Rose was saying softly, her tone laced with pure, tender compassion. "Just take slow, deep breaths. The danger is gone."
Nathaniel walked toward them, the fury in his eyes softening into something unfamiliar—guilt. For months, he had been too busy managing mergers and acquisitions to visit his grandmother more than once a week. He had ignored Eleanor’s subtle warnings about Victoria’s sudden change in demeanor, dismissing them as the paranoia of old age.
"Grandmother," Nathaniel murmured, dropping to one knee before her chair. "I am so sorry. I should have listened to you."
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Eleanor opened her weary eyes and looked down at her grandson. Slowly, she lifted a trembling hand, but she didn't touch Nathaniel. Instead, she laid her wrinkled fingers gently over Rose’s hand, which was still holding the cool compress against her neck.
"Don't apologize to me, Nathaniel," Eleanor said softly. "You need to thank this girl. If Rose hadn't thrown herself in front of that candelabrum, you would be lying in a hospital right now—or in a morgue."
