Arthur didn’t hesitate. He was a shark, and he recognized a bigger predator when he saw one. He took my hand and bowed over the Aurora ring.
“Madam President. I’d heard rumors… but I never suspected. It is an honor.”
“The honor is mine,” I smiled. “Shall we move to the head table? We have a merger to discuss. And my husband… well, he seems to have lost his seat.”
The dinner was a masterclass in psychological warfare.
I sat at the head of the platinum table, flanked by Arthur and the senior senator from New York. Julian had been relegated to Table 42, near the kitchen doors, where the waiters dumped the dirty plates. Isabella had vanished the moment she realized Julian held no real power, dissolving into the night like mist.
I could feel Julian’s eyes boring into me from across the room. I ignored him. I spoke French with the diplomat on my left. I discussed global supply chain logistics with Arthur. I drank the aged Pinot Noir that Julian had always told me was “too complex” for my simple palate.
Finally, he snapped.
Fueled by humiliation and three glasses of whiskey, Julian stormed across the room. The murmurs died as he approached the head table, his face flushed and sweaty.
“Enough!” he barked, slamming his hand on the tablecloth. The silverware jumped. “Stop acting, Elara! You’ve had your fun. You embarrassed me. Now sign the papers with Arthur so I can go home.”
Arthur looked up, unimpressed. “Julian, we are discussing the Asian market expansion. Do you mind?”
“She doesn’t know anything about Asian markets!” Julian spat, pointing a shaking finger at me. “She sits at home planting hydrangeas! I built this company! I worked eighteen-hour days!”
I set my wine glass down. The soft clink was louder than his shouting.
“Eighteen-hour days?” I asked quietly. “Let’s be accurate, Julian. You spent four hours in the office, three hours at lunch, two hours at the gym, and the rest entertaining ‘clients’ like Isabella.”
“That’s a lie!”
I picked up a small remote control from the table and pointed it at the massive screen behind the stage—the one reserved for his keynote speech.
“Shall we look at the data?”
The screen lit up. It didn’t show his powerpoint on synergy. It showed bank transfers.
“These,” I narrated, my voice crisp, “are unauthorized withdrawals from the R&D fund. Millions transferred to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands. One million spent on ‘consulting fees’ to a shell company owned by Ms. Ricci.”
The crowd gasped. Embezzlement. It was the death knell of a career.
Then the screen changed. A video played. It was grainy security footage from the Ritz-Carlton executive lounge, dated three weeks prior.
Julian’s voice filled the hall, clear and damning.
“I don’t care about safety protocols. Ignore the engineers. If the battery explodes, we’ll blame the supplier. I need the stock to hit $400 before the gala so I can cash out and divorce her. She’s dead weight. As long as I get my bonus, let the phones melt.”
The silence in the room was absolute. It was the silence of a tomb.
Arthur Sterling rose slowly. His face was a mask of fury. “You were going to let them burn?” he whispered. “My granddaughter uses a Thorn phone. You were going to let it explode in her hands for a quarterly bonus?”
“Arthur, wait—that’s out of context!” Julian stammered, backing away, his hands raised in surrender. “It was locker room talk! A joke!”
“Security!” Arthur roared. “Get this criminal out of my sight!”
Two uniformed guards stepped forward, but I raised a hand. They froze.
“Not yet,” I said.
