Chapter 4 - Stripped Bare
Vanessa flinched violently when I looked down at her. The haughty, triumphant smile she had worn earlier—the way she had leaned into Ethan’s chest as he proclaimed her the new First Lady of Aurelia—had dissolved into pure, raw terror. Tears had ruined her expensive mascara, leaving black tracks down her cheeks.
"Elena... please," she whispered, her voice cracking. She reached out, her manicured fingers trembling, attempting to touch the hem of my dress. "Ethan tricked me! He told me your marriage was a sham, that you were just a figurehead who didn't care about anything! He told me you were signing over the company willingly!"
"Did he also trick you into wearing my mother’s vintage Cartier necklace?" I asked coldly, gesturing toward her throat.
Vanessa’s hand flew to the glittering jewels at her neck. Her eyes darted wildly toward the exits, but guards stood at every doorway, their arms crossed.
"The Aurelia family heirlooms are listed under a perpetual trust," I continued, taking a slow, steady step forward. "Every single piece of jewelry Ethan gifted you over the last eighteen months—the emerald ring, the diamond tennis bracelets, the Patek Philippe watch—was purchased using company operational accounts or taken directly from private vaults belonging to my bloodline. That is grand larceny, Miss Miller. Over four million dollars’ worth of stolen assets."
"I’ll give them back!" Vanessa sobbed, fumbling frantically with the clasp behind her neck. Her fingers were shaking so hard she couldn't undo it. "Take them! Take all of it! I never wanted to hurt you! I didn't know you were this far along—I swear!"
"You didn't know?" A dark, bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Three days ago, you mailed a copy of your ultrasound and a handwritten note to my private doctor’s office. You wrote, *'A real man deserves a real woman who can give him an heir without looking like an inflated balloon.'* Did you think I wouldn't trace the courier service back to your boutique PR agency?"
A collective gasp echoed across the ballroom. The socialites who had fawned over Vanessa moments earlier recoiled in disgust. In high society, ambition was tolerated, but such vicious, petty cruelty toward a pregnant mother was unforgivable.
Samuel stepped onto the stage, snapping his fingers. Two female private investigators approached Vanessa.
"Remove the jewelry," Samuel ordered dispassionately.
With efficient, clinical detachment, the investigators unclasped the diamond necklace, slipped the rings from Vanessa’s trembling fingers, and even unbuckled the diamond-encrusted bracelet from her wrist. Vanessa sat on the floor, stripped of every ounce of borrowed glamour, clutching her bare collarbone as if trying to hide her shame.
"The lease on your luxury loft in Soho has been revoked," I added, looking down at her without an ounce of pity. "Your company credit cards are cancelled. And tomorrow morning, the Fashion Institute will receive documentation of the plagiarized marketing campaigns your firm submitted under Ethan’s patronage. You wanted his world, Vanessa. Now you can have what remains of it: bankruptcy, public disgrace, and a federal indictment."
"You're a monster," Vanessa hissed through her tears, glaring up at me with sudden venom. "Ethan loved me! He never loved you! You’re just a cold, calculating bitch!"
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"Perhaps," I said calmly. "But I am a cold, calculating billionaire who owns the roof over your head, the clothes on your back, and every breath of power you ever tasted. Get her out of my sight."
The investigators hauled Vanessa to her feet and escorted her out through the service exit, leaving the ballroom in dead silence once more.
