Mark stopped, frowning in confusion and immediate irritation. His arrogance flared.
“Excuse me,” Mark demanded, puffing out his chest, attempting to physically intimidate men twice his size. “My wife, Elena Vance, is in that room. Move out of the way.”
The guards didn’t blink. They didn’t move a single inch.
The heavy wooden door to Suite 402 clicked open.
Mark’s impatient sneer vanished instantly.
Stepping out of the hospital room was not a weeping, accommodating wife. It was Victoria Sterling.
She looked immaculate, terrifying, and radiated an aura of absolute, crushing authority. She looked like a monarch stepping out onto a balcony to oversee a public execution.
The color violently, instantaneously drained from Mark’s face, leaving his skin the pallor of wet ash. His jaw dropped. The bouquet of cheap daisies slipped slightly in his sweaty grip.
“Victoria…” Mark stammered, pure, unadulterated terror paralyzing his vocal cords. He took a stumbling step backward. “What… what are you doing here? You live in Chicago.”
“I am here to protect my daughter from a parasite,” Victoria said. Her voice didn’t shake. It echoed down the pristine, quiet hospital corridor with lethal, absolute finality.
She reached into her designer handbag. She pulled out a thick, heavy, red-flagged legal folder and dropped it directly onto the polished linoleum floor at his feet. It landed with a loud, definitive smack.
“Inside that folder,” Victoria stated coldly, looking down at him as if he were an insect, “are the official, immediate termination papers from your brokerage firm. A firm which my holding company formally acquired at midnight. You are fired for gross moral turpitude and suspicion of embezzlement. Also enclosed are your fault-based divorce papers, citing financial infidelity and reckless endangerment.”
