My Husband Announced Our Divorce in Front of 300 Wealthy Guests and Introduced His Mistress as His Future Wife—Then I Signed One Name That Made His Mother’s Smile Disappear. / Chapter 97 / 130

Chapter 97 - The Codicil of Blood

We did not enter through the front steps where the media cameras and security checkpoints were bottlenecked. Genevieve knew the palace better than the magistrates who presided inside it; her grandfather had financed its reconstruction after the Second World War.

Through an underground service corridor reserved for hereditary sovereign delegates, Julian guided us past two stunned security guards who recognized Genevieve's archival clearance badge and froze in terror, stepping aside without uttering a single word.

We stood behind the massive, carved-oak double doors leading into the Great Hall of the Tribunal.

Through the heavy wood, the muffled, resonant voice of Victoria Vance echoed across the chamber. She was speaking into the hall’s amplified microphones, her tone laden with theatrical, mourning nobility.

"...and so, it is with a shattered heart that I stand before this esteemed council today," Victoria’s voice floated through the seam. "My beloved daughter-in-law, Eleanor, whose tragic and untimely death in the Swiss Alps early this morning has plunged our family into profound grief, left no direct descendants. Under the Codicil of 1954, as the sole surviving elder of the Whitaker lineage, it falls upon my shoulders to assume stewardship of the Sovereign Trust..."

Beside her, I could hear Richard’s voice, solemn and rehearsed. "We ask the Tribunal to ratify the immediate transfer of authority to Vance Capital, so that we may honor Eleanor’s memory by preserving her family’s legacy."

"Disgusting," Julian muttered under his breath, his hand resting on the hilt of his concealed sidearm.

"Wait for the Chief Magistrate’s decree," Genevieve whispered, her hand resting firmly on my arm. "Let them build the gallows higher."

Through the crack, the voice of Chief Magistrate Baron Von Hauer echoed across the hall: "The Tribunal has reviewed the emergency petition filed by Vance Capital. In light of the tragic demise of Eleanor Whitaker, and seeing no counter-claims presented before this bench, we are prepared to enter the decree of probate and transfer the sovereign sealing authority to—"

"The Tribunal will enter no such decree," I spoke.

My voice was not a shout. It was quiet, clear, and projected with the icy resonance of absolute authority.

Julian struck the carved oak doors with both hands, throwing them wide open with a concussive bang that reverberated like a cannon shot through the three-story marble amphitheater.

The sound cut off the Chief Magistrate mid-sentence.

Five hundred people—heads of state, central bankers, private wealth barristers, and international journalists—turned in unison toward the back of the hall.

The silence that fell was immediate, absolute, and suffocating.

I walked down the central aisle, the sound of my heels striking the white marble floor with the steady, measured beat of a death march. Behind me walked Genevieve Whitaker, erect and terrifying in her black mourning attire, followed by Julian, whose piercing gaze kept the private security guards frozen in place.

Richard Vance stood at the podium beside his mother. When his eyes locked onto mine, every drop of blood drained from his face until he looked like a wax mannequin left out in the cold. His lips parted, trembling, but no sound came out.

Victoria Vance gripped the edges of the marble lectern so hard her knuckles turned translucent white. Her eyes bulged, her perfectly sculpted face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated horror.

"Eleanor...?" Richard stammered into the live microphone, his voice cracking like a terrified child’s. "You... you were in the house..."