Chapter 4 - The Files of the Saint
“Two hours ago,” Ethan said, holding up the manila folder for the cameras to see, “my executive assistant, Ava Bennett, stood in a private dressing room upstairs. She was bruised, she was terrified, and she was trying desperately to cover up the physical evidence of a monster who masquerades as a humanitarian.”
Every head in the ballroom snapped toward the wings.
For a fraction of a second, Ava wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. All the cameras swung away from the stage, blinding her with a wall of white light as lenses zoomed in on her pale, trembling face in the shadows.
Adrian spun around, his eyes locking onto Ava with a look of pure, murderous hatred that he didn't even bother to hide from the public anymore.
“Ava!” Adrian snarled, taking a threatening step toward the wings. “You lying, manipulative bitch—!”
Before Adrian could cross the stage, Ethan’s hand shot out, grabbing Adrian by the lapel of his tuxedo with terrifying speed and jerking him back so hard Adrian slammed against the podium.
“You take another step toward her,” Ethan whispered, his voice carrying through the open microphone with bone-chilling clarity, “and I will personally ensure you spend the rest of your natural life in a maximum-security prison where the inmates treat pediatric surgeons with very specific kinds of disrespect.”
The audience gasped collectively. Several prominent donors stood up from their tables, whispering in horror.
Ethan released Adrian with a disgusted shove, letting the doctor stumble against the wood. Ethan turned back to the crowd, flipping open the manila folder.
“This file contains three years of emergency room records from hospitals across three states,” Ethan stated clearly. “Concealed concussions. Fractured ribs. Chemical burns disguised as kitchen accidents. All belonging to women who trusted Dr. Adrian Vaughn—women he isolated, abused, and threatened into silence using his medical standing and legal intimidation.”
Ethan pulled out a stack of glossy photographs and laid them flat on the podium. Even from the audience, the dark purple fingerprints, the swollen jawlines, and the silent agony captured in those hospital photos were unmistakable.
“And finally,” Ethan continued, his voice dropping into a register of pure, cold fury, “this file contains the medical records of Ava Bennett—a woman who has worked sixteen-hour days to keep my corporation running while carrying injuries that would have put a normal person in intensive care. Injuries inflicted by the man you were about to honor tonight.”
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The silence in the ballroom broke.
A woman in the third row let out a loud, horrified sob. Shouts of outrage erupted from the back of the room. Senator Collins slammed his fist down on his table, his face purple with fury.
