Chapter 3 - The Audit of Eleven Years
Marcus stopped three steps from the bottom, looking down at me with the familiar, condescending glare he had used to control me for over a decade. He thought this was another emotional outburst—another argument he could solve by raising his voice and threatening to leave.
"You've gone too far this time, Victoria," he hissed, dropping his voice so the guests wouldn't hear. "You think your father’s old money can save you from a breach of contract lawsuit? I built this brand. My name is on the towels, for God's sake!"
"Your name is a trademark that my father paid twenty million dollars to register, Marcus," I said, matching his low tone but keeping my voice sharp enough to cut through his arrogance. "You didn't build this brand. You were the face of it because I let you think you were the leader. I sat in the background because I loved you, and because I thought your ambition was a sign of strength. But you confused my support for submission."
Chloe stepped down behind him, her fingers clutching the lapel of the silk robe where my mother’s brooch was pinned. "Marcus, my phone isn't working. It says my corporate account has been terminated. What's happening?"
I didn't look at her; I kept my eyes locked on Marcus. "Chloe’s consulting firm was paid eighty thousand dollars last month from the hotel’s development fund for 'market analysis.' Do you want to explain to the forensic auditors why that analysis was conducted entirely at a luxury resort in the Maldives while I was in London closing the line of credit for our European expansion?"
Marcus’s jaw tightened. A flicker of real panic passed through his dark eyes before he masked it with another scowl. "That was a legitimate business expense."
"The auditors will decide that at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow," I said, stepping aside to let a group of men in dark charcoal suits enter through the front doors.
They weren't hotel employees. They were the senior forensic accountants from Sterling Global, led by a ruthless, unsmiling woman named Clara Croft—a woman who had spent thirty years dismantling corporate fraudsters for my father. Behind them came two uniform city marshals carrying legal transport boxes.
"Mr. Castellano," Clara said, her voice like dry autumn leaves. "We have an emergency court order to seize all corporate servers, physical ledgers, and personal devices issued by the Sterling Group. Please step away from the stairs and surrender your company-issued phone and laptop immediately."
"This is a joke," Marcus laughed, looking at the marshals. "You can't seize my personal phone!"
"It’s not personal, Marcus," I said, pointing to the device in his breast pocket. "The phone, the service plan, the encrypted data vault inside it—they are all registered under the Sterling corporate umbrella. You wanted me out of your hotel? Well, you’re out of our network."
The marshals stepped forward, their hands resting casually near their holsters. Marcus looked around the lobby, searching for Julian, searching for Gregory, searching for any of the loyalists he had spent two years placing in positions of power.
But hospitality workers are smart. They know which way the wind blows. Julian was already in his office, frantically packing his personal items into a cardboard box. Gregory was standing at attention next to the front doors, looking straight ahead as if Marcus didn't even exist.
"You're going to pay for this, Victoria," Marcus muttered, his voice cracking slightly as he pulled the titanium phone from his pocket and dropped it into Clara Croft’s open collection box. "I’ll take half of everything you have in the divorce."
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"You can try," I said. "But first, you have to explain where the fifteen million dollars from the Sovereign Chicago construction escrow account went. Because Clara already found the shell companies in the Cayman Islands registered under your initials."
The color left Marcus’s face so fast he looked like one of the marble statues lining the corridor.
