Upstairs, in her own bedroom, Charlotte found her fiancé, Ethan, in bed with Vanessa—the young widow of her late father.
Vanessa didn’t scream.
She didn’t cover herself in shame.
She simply adjusted her hair, lifted a glass of champagne from the bedside table, and smiled as though Charlotte was the intruder.
“Oh, Charlotte,” she said, her eyes sliding toward the pregnant belly. “Already tired of pretending to be the powerful woman in charge? How convenient of you to come up here now.”
Ethan stood calmly, buttoning his white shirt. Then he walked to the heavy oak door, shut it, and locked it.
Click.
The sound froze Charlotte’s blood.
“Good thing you came alone,” he said. “You just saved us a lot of effort.”
He dropped a thick folder onto the vanity.
Charlotte saw the titles printed across the pages.
Full Transfer of Shares.
Irrevocable Power of Attorney.
Medical Authorization for Psychiatric Commitment.
“Sign,” Ethan ordered. “The company, the house, the accounts. Everything goes under my control.”
Charlotte swallowed.
Only hours earlier, Ethan had fastened a diamond necklace around her throat in front of cameras and guests.
“So everyone knows who my queen is,” he had whispered.
What Ethan didn’t know was that the center diamond hid a tiny 4K camera installed by Charlotte’s head of security.
The original plan had been different.
Later that night, she intended to record Ethan during a private meeting with his accountants, where she believed he would expose how he had siphoned millions from Bennett Technologies.
But something unexpected had happened.
In the audiovisual control room, a nervous technician had accidentally switched the camera feed live.
The necklace was already broadcasting everything.
Every word.
Every movement.
Every threat.
The footage was playing across the giant screens downstairs.
Charlotte looked at Ethan and pretended to be afraid.
“Why would you do this?” she asked softly. “They’re your children.”
Ethan laughed.
“That is exactly why. The twins give me access to the family trust. But you? You’re far too unstable to handle real power.”
Vanessa crossed the room barefoot, wrapped in a silk sheet.
“Everyone knows you’ve been falling apart since your father died,” she said. “You cry. You panic. You talk to yourself. A diagnosis of prenatal psychosis won’t surprise anyone.”
One of the babies kicked inside Charlotte.
