Chapter 2 - The Audit of the Lost CrownBy 2:00 AM, the private master suite at The Ashford Estate in Upper Bedford was locked down under absolute, non-negotiable security.
Outside the grand iron gates, ten armed Vance Security vehicles—hired directly by Gideon's trusted chief of security, Marcus Vance—guarded the perimeter. Inside, I sat in a high-backed velvet armchair near the stone fireplace, wrapped in a warm silk robe, drinking chamomile tea while a team of top private dermatologists and high-fashion stylists worked beside me.
Across the broad black granite coffee table sat Gideon Ashford, alongside Senior Corporate Prosecutor Bridget Colton and two federal forensic accounting experts.
Bridget Colton opened three heavy, red-sealed leather binders, sliding digital ledgers and wiretap transcripts flat onto the table toward Gideon and me:
"Vivian, Gideon," Bridget spoke crisp and fast, her sharp blue eyes holding surgical professional fury. "The forensic audit into Preston Vance, Cassidy Vaughn, and Vance Logistics is complete."
Gideon stood by the hearth, a glass of untouched bourbon in his hand, his gray eyes locked onto my face. "Tell her everything, Bridget."
Bridget tapped the digital screens:
THE STOLEN HERITAGE TRUST: Certified bank registries proving Preston Vance forged Vivian’s signature on probate decrees four years ago, seizing her late father's $150 million commercial shipping trust (The Bennett Maritime Fund).
THE PREMEDITATED EMBEZZLEMENT: Intercepted wiretaps capturing Cassidy Vaughn and Preston discussing how to force Vivian into a public mental breakdown at the Founders' Gala to execute a forced legal conservatorship.
THE SOVEREIGN CHARTER: Original federal deeds confirming Vivian Bennett-Vance as sole fifty-one percent common equity holder over the entire Vance Logistics Network upon her father's passing.
My hands tightened around my teacup until the porcelain creaked.
Five years of hiding under baggy sweaters, enduring Preston's cruel insults, watching his pregnant mistress strut through our corporate hallways while they plotted to steal my father's legacy and lock me in an institution.
"They thought my scars made me weak," I rasped out, every word falling like an iron block into the quiet room. "They thought because I didn't fight back when Preston sneered at my back, I would surrender my father's company."
May you like
Gideon walked across the room, dropping flat onto one knee in front of my chair. The feared billionaire whose name commanded terror across Wall Street reached out, taking my small, trembling hands into his broad, calloused palms, pressing his lips gently against my fingers.
"They don't know who you really are, Vivian," Gideon promised, his deep baritone thick with an unshakeable, diamond-hard devotion. "Tomorrow night at the Founders' Gala... you don't hide those burns under a shawl. You wear them like gold."
Related Stories
