Chapter 121 - Shadows of the Convent
Dominic’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes narrowing in quiet suspicion. "You always were arrogant, Victoria. Just like your father. But arrogance doesn't override blood contracts. In twelve hours, the court in Geneva validates my parental custody claim, and your precious Noah and Sophie become wards of the Sterling-Vance trust under my personal direction."
"You built your entire legal case on a lie, Dominic," I stepped an inch closer, lowering my voice so only he could hear. "You claimed Noah and Sophie were born in your private chalet in the Swiss Alps. But I know the truth. I know about the St. Jude Convent in Normandy."
A visible flicker of shock passed across Dominic's weathered face. The hand holding his champagne glass tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"You know nothing," he growled under his breath.
"I know that ten years ago, a young woman died giving birth to twins in that convent during the syndicate war," I continued, my gaze locked onto his without flinching. "I know that my father paid off her medical debts, saved those babies, and arranged a legal, bulletproof adoption through the French Supreme Court. And I know the retired head nurse—Sister Beatrice—is still alive."
Before Dominic could react, a sharp, localized electronic pulse chimed in my earpiece.
"Data clone complete, Chairwoman," Marcus's voice crackled softly through the comms. "We have his master server keys. Ethan is moving into position at the exit."
Dominic realized he had been played. He reached into his coat to signal his security team, but I leaned in, pressing my lips near his ear with a terrifyingly calm smile.
"Look up at the glass dome, Dominic," I whispered.
High above the grand ballroom, silhouetted against the dark night sky through the stained-glass ceiling, stood Ethan. The red laser dot of his tactical scope rested precisely on the lapel of Dominic’s suit.
Dominic froze, sweat breaking out along his hairline.
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"If you move a single muscle, or if your men make a single phone call," I warned, taking a smooth step backward and smoothing down my silk gown, "my husband turns this victory gala into your funeral. Enjoy the champagne, Count. It's the last glass you'll ever drink as a free man."
I turned on my heel, walking gracefully through the silent crowd toward the grand exit, leaving Count Dominic standing frozen in pure terror under the glittering chandeliers.
