Chapter 3 - The Gala of Fools
Forty-eight hours after throwing my belongings into the rain, Adrian and Vanessa threw a lavish "Estate Acquisition Gala" at my former home to celebrate their new corporate partnership and public engagement.
They invited fifty of the city’s top real estate moguls, investors, and local press, desperate to project an image of supreme wealth and stability to cover Apex Global’s impending bankruptcy.
Vanessa wore an emerald green silk gown, parading around the grand living room, showing off the black Birkin and bragging about how she had "remodeled" the space by discarding the previous owner's "cheap taste."
Adrian stood by the fireplace, champagne glass in hand, holding court with three major investors.
"It’s about vision," Adrian boasted loudly, leaning against the marble mantelpiece. "My former wife lacked the ambition required for this level of success. You have to cut away the weak limbs if you want the tree to grow."
"Speaking of cutting away weak limbs," a voice echoed through the high-ceilinged room.
The heavy mahogany front doors swung open.
The room went dead silent.
Standing in the entryway was not a broken, weeping ex-wife. I stepped into the foyer wearing a breathtaking, floor-length crimson gown, my dark hair styled in sleek, royal waves, diamond drop earrings catching the chandelier light.
Beside me stood four men in dark navy suits—the senior litigation team from Vance & Sterling—accompanied by two uniformed federal marshals and an officer from the State Economic Crimes Unit.
Vanessa dropped her champagne glass. It shattered against the white marble floor.
"Victoria?" Adrian stammered, his face turning pale as paper. "What is the meaning of this drama? You were evicted! This is private property!"
"Correction, Mr. Vance-Miller," Federal Marshal Miller stepped forward, pulling a thick, gold-embossed document from his leather coat. "This property is currently under a federal asset preservation order issued by the United States District Court."
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Vanessa rushed forward, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. "That’s impossible! The deed is in my name! My father’s lawyers verified it!"
"Your deed," I said, taking a calm, elegant step toward her, my voice carrying clear and lethal authority through the silent room, "was generated using a forged power of attorney signature dated while I was under general anesthesia during an emergency C-section at Mount Sinai Hospital."
