Chapter 6 - The Clean Slate
By eleven o'clock that evening, the ballroom had been cleared of drama.
The orchestra packed up their instruments, having received a double tip directly from my father’s personal account. My genuine friends—colleagues from my investment group, my college roommates, and my cousins—had gathered in the penthouse lounge on the twenty-fourth floor.
We didn't sit in mournful silence.
We drank vintage champagne, ate warm sliders and truffle fries from silver platters, and toasted to the bullet I had dodged at the altar.
My father sat in an armchair by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, looking out over the glittering lights of Lake Shore Drive.
I walked over, still wearing my silk gown, but having traded my high heels for a pair of comfortable hotel slippers. I sat on the broad arm of his chair, resting my head against his shoulder just as I had done when I was ten years old.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I murmured.
My father turned his head, looking at me with gentle, warm eyes. “What on earth are you apologizing for, sweetheart?”
“For not seeing it sooner,” I said, looking down at my bare left hand. “For thinking that Marcus loved me for who I was, while he was quietly calculating your balance sheets.”
Arthur Vance chuckled softly, wrapping an arm around my waist.
“Valeria, greedy people are very skilled at playing the part of humble partners until the contract is in sight,” he said. “You didn't fail a test tonight. You passed it with honors.”
He took a sip of his bourbon, his gaze drifting back toward the city skyline.
“Most people would have kept quiet to save face,” my father continued. “Most women would have smiled through the cake cutting, signed the marriage certificate on Tuesday, and spent the next twenty years fighting in probate court to protect their children’s inheritance.”
He squeezed my hand firmly.
“You took the ring off in front of six hundred people,” he said proudly. “You proved that the Vance spine doesn't bend for anyone. Not for a mother-in-law’s rules, and not for a husband’s cowardice.”
Jonathan Sterling walked over from the bar, holding two fresh glasses of mineral water. He handed one to me with a respectful nod.
“David Miller sent over the preliminary audit on Marcus’s desk thirty minutes ago,” Sterling informed us, leaning against the window mullion. “It’s worse than we thought.”
I sat up straight. “What did he find?”
“Keene had already drafted three commercial bridge loan applications using Vance-Crest assets as contingent collateral,” Sterling said, his jaw tightening into iron. “He was planning to submit them to the credit committee first thing Monday morning, right after your scheduled civil signing.”
A cold chill ran down my spine.
If I had stayed silent—if I had prioritized ‘keeping the peace’ over confronting Beatrice—Marcus would have used my name to commit multi-million-dollar financial fraud before our honeymoon bags were even unpacked.
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“What happens to him now?” I asked.
“The compliance department is handing the file over to the Securities and Exchange Commission at eight o’clock tomorrow,” Sterling replied smoothly. “His banking licenses will be revoked by noon. By the end of the month, the only portfolio Marcus Keene will be managing is the commissary list at a federal holding facility.”
