Chapter 2 - The Suit of Steel
The fog from Brenda’s mild poison dissipated rapidly, replaced by a cold, searing adrenaline that burned away every remaining trace of weakness in my veins.
I stood in the center of my vast, empty walk-in closet. Brenda had stripped the racks bare of my gowns, but she had overlooked the private safe behind the full-length mirror. I pressed my thumb against the biometric scanner. The heavy steel door clicked open with a muted, mechanical hiss.
Inside hung a single garment I hadn't worn in six years: a custom-tailored, double-breasted tuxedo suit made of midnight-black Italian wool, structured with sharp, padded shoulders and peak satin lapels. I had commissioned it the day my father made me vice-president of Albright Enterprises—before Christopher persuaded me to step back into the shadows to "preserve his executive image."
I pulled the trousers on. They fit perfectly. I buttoned the jacket over my bare skin, leaving a deep, sharp V at my neckline, punctuated only by a heavy, platinum serpent choker set with dark emeralds—a piece inherited directly from my father, which Brenda had never been allowed to touch.
I sat at my vanity. I didn't paint my face to look delicate or soft. I drew a bold, dark line along my eyes, painted my lips a deep crimson, and slicked my dark hair straight back off my forehead.
When I stood up and looked into the mirror, the broken, forgiving wife who had spent two years weeping in silence was gone. In her place stood Vivian Vance-Albright—the sole heir to the founding shares of Grand Horizon Group.
Luke stepped into the dressing room, wearing a sharp black suit that matched mine. In his hands was a leather briefcase containing a encrypted hard drive.
"Attorney Marcus Vance is already at the hotel," Luke said, his voice flat, precise, and devoid of childish emotion. "He’s standing by with the temporary injunction papers and the board petition."
"And the news outlets?" I asked, adjusting my platinum cuffs.
"They think they’re covering a charity auction," Luke replied with a dark, satisfied glint in his young eyes. "They don't know they're about to broadcast the total liquidation of Christopher Albright’s public reputation."
Downstairs, Mrs. Higgins waited by the grand foyer holding my coat—a floor-length black cashmere trench coat.
"Mrs. Albright," the old housekeeper said, her eyes shining with quiet pride. "Your father would be very proud of you tonight."
"Tonight, Mrs. Higgins," I said, slipping my hands into my leather gloves, "we remind Christopher whose name is actually on the building."
We stepped into the backseat of my late father’s vintage black Bentley. Don Rubén—our loyal driver who had served my family for twenty years—pulled out of the Beverly Hills estate and aimed the heavy vehicle toward downtown Los Angeles, where the Grand Halston Ballroom was glowing like a golden trap under the evening sky.
On the small screen mounted in the Bentley, the live stream of the gala continued.
Christopher was standing near Table 1—the head table reserved for the founder's family. He had his arm wrapped tightly around Brenda’s waist. Brenda was holding a glass of vintage champagne, laughing softly at a joke made by Mayor Thornton.
"Christopher looks so happy," the broadcast commentator gushed into her microphone. "It’s wonderful to see the CEO of Albright Enterprises looking so united with his lovely wife, Vivian, after her recent private health struggles."
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I leaned forward, my eyes fixed on Brenda’s neck. She was wearing my grandmother’s vintage diamond necklace—the one my father had placed around my neck on my wedding day.
"Enjoy the ice while it’s around your neck, Brenda," I whispered into the quiet interior of the car. "Because before the night is over, it’s going to strangle you."
