The chief pilot didn’t pull out a loose wire. He pulled out a sleek, military-grade altitude explosive. Set to detonate at exactly 2,000 feet.
Arthur Vane didn’t flinch. He turned slowly to his wife, Eleanor. Her stunning gold dress suddenly looked less like royalty and more like a prison jumpsuit.
“Arthur, I swear!” she shrieked, backing away. “He’s lying! I don’t even know this kid!”
“Then get in,” Arthur’s voice was pure ice. “If it’s a lie, take my seat. Fly to the city.”
Eleanor looked at the deafening, spinning blades. Then at the silver bomb trembling in the pilot’s hands. Her knees finally buckled.
“I… I had to!” she sobbed, sinking to the grass. “You were going to divorce me! You were going to leave me with nothing!”
The security guards immediately seized her arms. The executives gasped. The trap had snapped shut.
Arthur adjusted his cuffs, his face a mask of bored disappointment. He walked over to the bruised, terrified stable boy and casually handed him a thick, unmarked envelope.
“Excellent performance, kid,” Arthur murmured, loud enough for his weeping wife to hear. “The panic in your eyes was a nice touch.”
The crowd stared in stunned silence as the young man wiped the sweat from his forehead. His terrified posture instantly vanished, replaced by a confident smirk. “Thanks, Mr. Vane. Told you my theater degree would pay off.”
Eleanor stopped sobbing, her eyes wide with horrific realization.
There was no hitman. There was no real bomb. Arthur had planted a dummy device himself, hired an actor, and pushed her into a panicked, public confession in front of a dozen corporate witnesses.
With her caught admitting to attempted murder, her ironclad prenuptial agreement was instantly void. She wouldn’t get a single cent.
Arthur stepped into the helicopter, looking down at her one last time. “Call the police,” he ordered his guards. “I have a meeting to catch.”