Chapter 6 - The Night in Manhattan
The venue was the Park Avenue Armory in Manhattan—a massive, vaulted space decorated with dark velvet drapery, industrial light rigs, and a eighty-foot runway made of polished black glass.
Outside, rain slicked the streets of New York as limousines and luxury sedans dropped off the royalty of the fashion and financial worlds. Editors from Vogue, senior buyers from Europe, hedge fund managers, and celebrity icons crammed into the front-row seats.
Backstage was a controlled storm.
Thirty models in sleek, structural garments lined up while makeup artists applied finishing touches. Marcus and the elder tailors from New Orleans made frantic, precise adjustments to hems and collars.
In the center of the dressing room stood Evelyn.
She looked breathtaking. She wore a bespoke floor-length gown of deep emerald silk—a dress her mother had designed forty years ago, finished by her own hands last night. Her blonde hair was swept up, revealing the delicate line of her neck and the small, healed scar behind her ear.
Dominic stepped behind her, placing two hands on her shoulders. He wore a flawless tuxedo, looking like a sovereign lord overseeing his dominion.
“Ten minutes, my queen,” Dominic murmured, looking at her reflection in the full-length mirror.
Evelyn smiled softly, touching his hand. “I’m ready.”
Suddenly, the heavy curtains leading to the backstage alleyway were thrown open.
A man pushed past two security guards, his suit wet from the rain, his face contorted with rage.
It was Adrian.
Behind him came Sloane, wearing an over-the-top designer dress, her eyes wide with panic.
“Evelyn!” Adrian yelled, stepping into the backstage dressing room.
The models stopped talking. The tailors froze. Marcus stepped forward, his silver-sheared hand dropping to his side, but Dominic raised a calm hand, stopping him.
Evelyn slowly turned around to face her ex-husband.
She didn't flinch. She didn't retreat. She looked at Adrian the way a judge looks at a convicted trespasser.
“You don't belong backstage, Adrian,” Evelyn said coldly.
“You stole my ledgers!” Adrian spat, taking a step toward her, his voice raw. “You took four hundred million dollars in company debt and sold it to this gangster!” He pointed a shaking finger at Dominic.
“I didn't steal anything,” Evelyn replied smoothly, her voice carrying across the quiet room. “I reclaimed my mother’s legacy. I reclaimed my designs. And I took the proof of your tax fraud to the Southern District of New York four hours ago.”
Adrian’s face drained of all color. “You... what?”
Sloane stepped forward, her voice rising into a hysterical shriek. “You ruined us! The buyers canceled our show! Mercer Urban Holdings is entering bankruptcy tomorrow morning!”
She lunged toward Evelyn, her silver nails extended, aiming for Evelyn’s face just like she had aimed for her back six months ago on the staircase.
“You little bitch—!”
CLACK.
Sloane never reached Evelyn.
Dominic Vale moved with terrifying, lightning-fast precision. His hand shot out, catching Sloane by the throat mid-air, stopping her instantly. He didn't choke her; he simply held her in place with iron strength, her feet barely touching the concrete floor.
The room went dead silent.
Dominic tilted his head, looking down at Sloane with eyes so cold they could freeze fire.
“Six months ago, Miss Whitmore,” Dominic whispered, his voice echoing off the brick walls, “you pushed this woman down a flight of glass stairs in San Diego. You thought nobody was watching.”
He leaned closer to her pale, terrified face.
“In my city, when someone touches what belongs to the King... we don't push them down stairs. We bury them beneath the river.”
He released her neck casually. Sloane fell to her knees, clutching her throat, gasping for air, weeping hysterically on the floor.
Dominic turned his gaze to Adrian, who stood paralyzed with fear, looking at the two armed guards who had just stepped through the rear doors—FDNY detail officers accompanied by two federal agents in dark suits.
“Adrian Mercer?” the lead federal agent stepped forward, pulling a gold badge from his coat. “You are under arrest for corporate bank fraud, wire fraud, and grand larceny. Step forward.”
Adrian looked at Evelyn—the woman he had called poor, the woman he had treated like an invisible ghost, the woman he had left bleeding on marble while he saved his cameras.
“Evelyn... please,” Adrian choked out, tears of humiliation spilling down his face as the steel handcuffs clicked around his wrists. “We were married four years... please tell them—”
“I don't know you,” Evelyn said quietly.
May you like
She turned her back on him, looking toward the dark velvet curtain as the crowd out front began to chant the name: VANCE! VANCE! VANCE!
The agents dragged Adrian and Sloane out into the rain, their screams swallowed by the roar of Manhattan traffic.
