The red wine stain on Sarah’s dress gleamed like a fresh kill beneath the crisp, tailored white blazer she had just slipped on.
Julian lunged toward the stage. “Cut her mic!” he barked at the sound booth.
The engineer didn’t move. He worked for Sarah now.
“For three years,” Sarah’s voice echoed through the cavernous ballroom, cool and entirely lethal. “Julian told you I managed his schedule. He conveniently left out the part where I managed his shell companies.”
Dead silence. The clinking of champagne glasses vanished.
“Sarah, please,” Julian begged, his voice cracking as he reached the bottom of the stairs. His arrogant facade had completely evaporated, replaced by a suffocating, pale dread.
She didn’t even look at him. She opened the gold folder.
“Julian assumed I was quiet because I was weak,” Sarah continued, her eyes sweeping over the paralyzed crowd of billionaires and investors. “I was quiet because I was taking notes. Every wire fraud. Every embezzled offshore account. Every illegal trade.”
Cynthia, the woman in the green dress, suddenly dropped her wine glass. It shattered on the marble floor. Her smug, venomous sneer twisted into absolute horror.
Julian tried to climb the steps. Two massive security guards—men whose paychecks Julian thought he signed—stepped forward and shoved him violently back to the floor.
“At exactly 8:00 PM tonight, the DOJ froze every asset Mercer Holdings possesses,” Sarah declared, leaning into the microphone. Behind her, the dramatic orange sunset seemed to set the glass windows on fire.
Heavy, synchronized footsteps echoed from the back of the hall. Federal agents poured through the mahogany doors, blocking every exit.
Sarah looked down at Julian, who was now trembling on his knees, then over to Cynthia’s terrified face.
“You introduced me wrong, Julian,” Sarah smiled, dropping the gold folder of indictment papers onto his lap. “I’m not the nanny. I’m the new owner. Now get out of my house.”