Minute Four.
Julian dropped his phone. It clattered against the marble floor.
“That’s impossible,” Julian whispered, the air leaving his lungs. “Sterling International owns our debt. I met their acquisitions director last year. They love my vision!”
“Sterling International doesn’t care about your vision, you arrogant idiot!” David sobbed through the dropped phone on the floor. “I just got off the phone with their legal department. The Chairman of Sterling just issued a direct, irrevocable kill order on our entire corporate portfolio!”
Minute Five.
Julian went entirely, terrifyingly still. He slowly, agonizingly turned his head away from the phone. He looked down at the bleeding, battered woman kneeling on the floor of his estate. He looked at my dark hair, my dark eyes. He watched as I slowly, agonizingly pushed myself up into a sitting position.
He stared at me, his mind desperately scrambling, gears grinding as five years of narcissistic delusion collided with a horrifying, apocalyptic reality. He finally remembered my maiden name. A name I had begged him to keep out of the press because I claimed I was “shy.” A name I had used to quietly co-sign the loans that built his fake empire.
Victoria Sterling.
Before Julian could even open his mouth to speak, before the full, crushing weight of his insignificance could even fully register in his brain, the massive, custom-built oak front doors of the estate did not just open.
They were violently, explosively breached.
The heavy oak doors slammed inward with such force that the brass handles cracked the drywall of the grand entryway.
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