Chapter 6 - The Arrival in Monaco
The rain in New York was replaced by the blinding, midday Mediterranean glare as Marcus’s chartered jet touched down in Nice.
He hadn't slept for twenty-six hours; his tuxedo was rumpled, his eyes were bloodshot and swollen, and his face was covered in dark stubble.
Beside him, Gavin Roark looked like a walking corpse, clutching a leather briefcase containing the emergency legal briefs they had drafted at thirty thousand feet.
They took an express speedboat directly into the inner harbor of Port Hercules, where the colossal gray hull of the Valkyrie dominated the marina.
Surrounding the yacht were dozens of paparazzi tenders and luxury launches carrying financial correspondents from Bloomberg, the Financial Times, and CNBC.
The world had realized that the biggest tech story of the year wasn't an IPO; it was an execution.
As Marcus climbed the polished teak boarding stairs, two imposing security guards in dark uniforms scanned him with handheld metal detectors.
They confiscated his phone, his smartwatch, and Gavin's recording devices without uttering a single word.
"Follow me, gentlemen," the chief steward said coldly, leading them across the sunlit decks.
Guests in elegant resort wear were sipping vintage Bellinis near the plunge pool, murmuring with amused disdain as the disheveled New York founder was marched past them.
In the upper salon, the air was cool, scented with fresh eucalyptus and sea salt.
Julian Vance sat behind a wide glass desk, dressed in a tailored navy blazer and open-collared white shirt, reviewing a set of digital contracts.
Sitting beside him on a low cream leather sectional was me.
I wore a simple, elegant ivory silk halter dress, my hair sweeping past my shoulders in soft waves, my wrists adorned only with my mother’s vintage gold watch.
When Marcus saw me, his breath hitched in his throat.
I didn't look like the quiet, exhausted woman who used to fold his laundry and remind him to take his blood pressure medicine.
I looked like a sovereign who had returned to her throne.
"Sera," Marcus whispered, taking an eager, desperate step toward me, only for a security guard to silently block his path.
"Marcus," I said, setting down my porcelain teacup with a gentle, precise click.
"You look exhausted. Did you not sleep on your charter?"
"Sera, please stop this," Marcus pleaded, his hands trembling as he gestured wildly around the salon.
"Chloe is gone. I fired her at Teterboro before the plane took off. She meant nothing to me, I swear to God!"
"She was a distraction! I was under so much stress with the IPO!"
"You and I built Thorn Logic together from nothing! You can't let Julian Vance steal our life's work!"
Julian didn't even look up from his screen as he let out a short, quiet laugh.
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"Steal, Mr. Thorn?" Julian asked, his tone dripping with icy contempt.
"One cannot steal what was never yours to begin with."
