Chapter 4 - The Counter-Strike
The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was decorated with thousands of white orchids, their sweet, heavy scent filling the air as the city’s elite arrived for the Vance Foundation’s annual winter gala. Cameras flashed, diamonds glittered, and champagne flowed freely.
Victoria Vance stood near the grand entrance, looking resplendent in a royal blue velvet gown. Her smile was wide, bright, and completely hollow. To the reporters, she was the picture of resilience, calmly dismissing the "unfortunate internet rumors" as a coordinated smear campaign by a disgruntled former employee.
"My heart goes out to the young lady," Victoria told a local news anchor, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. "But we must focus on the work. Tonight, we are raising five million dollars for the children's hospital."
But behind her eyes, the fury was burning. The turn-out was lower than usual; several key corporate sponsors had canceled their tables at the last minute, citing "scheduling conflicts" that everyone knew were excuses to avoid the public relations nightmare.
"Where is Alistair?" Victoria whispered to her assistant as she stepped away from the cameras. "He was supposed to bring the sheriff to ensure Christian Mercer doesn't try to enter the building."
"Mr. Vance is in the holding room, ma'am," the assistant stammered, looking nervous. "He’s... he’s with some people."
Before Victoria could ask further, the lights in the ballroom suddenly flickered.
The lively classical music played by the orchestra faltered, then stopped entirely. The massive projector screen behind the main stage, which was supposed to show a slideshow of the foundation's charitable work, went black.
A murmur of confusion ran through the crowd of three hundred guests.
Then, a voice echoed through the high-end sound system. It wasn't Victoria's voice. It was Alistair Vance's voice, recorded in a private room just an hour prior.
"We had to transfer the funds to the Caymans before the end of the quarter, Victoria. If the IRS looks at the domestic worker program, they’ll see we only spent ten percent of the grant money on actual healthcare. The rest went into the yacht purchase."
Victoria’s breath caught in her throat. Her face turned ashen under her heavy makeup. "Turn it off!" she screamed at the technical booth. "Turn it off right now!"
But the audio continued, crystal clear and damning.
"Don't worry about the girl, Alistair. Briggs will handle her. A few weeks in a county jail on a grand larceny charge will teach her to keep her mouth shut. She’s nothing. She’s just a maid."
The ballroom went dead silent. The guests stared at the screen, which suddenly lit up again—not with a video, but with the official, unredacted bank statements of the Vance holding company, showing the direct flow of federal grant money into Victoria’s personal accounts.
Then, the double doors of the ballroom opened.
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Christian Mercer walked down the center aisle, dressed in a sharp black tuxedo. Beside him walked Lyra. She wore a simple, elegant dark green dress, her hair styled beautifully, her face calm, serene, and entirely unafraid.
Behind them were four federal agents in dark jackets bearing the letters: IRS-CID.
