Part 2 The chandeliers faded to a warm ambient glow.
**Part 2**
The chandeliers faded to a warm ambient glow. The chatter of the elite died down as the massive projector screen lowered over the grand stage. A spotlight hit the center of the room, expecting Dominic and Chloe to step into it.
Dominic stepped forward alone, his tailored black tuxedo cutting a striking, solitary figure.
But the video that flickered onto the screen wasn’t the montage of sunset yacht rides and staged charity gallas.
The screen blared to life with raw, grainy security footage. The timestamp in the corner flashed the current date. The time was ten minutes ago. The location: the Plaza’s third-floor VIP coat room.
A collective gasp ripped through the ballroom.
On the massive screen, fifty feet wide, Chloe Davenport was vividly displayed. Her back was pressed against the mahogany racks of expensive coats. Her blonde hair was a mess. Her hands clutched the lapels of a man who was very clearly not Dominic.
It was Liam Russo—Dominic’s cousin, his fiercest rival within the syndicate.
The audio, captured by the hotel’s high-definition surveillance system, echoed through the ballroom’s surround-sound speakers.
“You think I actually want to marry that cold-blooded psycho?” Chloe’s voice sneered through the speakers, breathless and cruel. “He’s a monster, Liam. I’m only doing this until my father gets access to the Russo offshore accounts. Once the transfer clears next month, we turn the evidence over to the feds. Dominic goes to prison for life, and you take over the family. Just like we planned.”
“And what about the wedding night, my sweet Chloe?” Liam’s voice purred as he kissed her neck, his hands roaming over her designer gown.
“I’ll fake a migraine,” she laughed sharply. “Just shut up and kiss me before I have to go back out there and pretend I don’t despise him.”
Five hundred people stopped breathing. The silence was absolute—a heavy, suffocating vacuum.
Beatrice froze in horror, her hand flying to her mouth. She scrambled to hit the kill switch on the console, but the technician, paralyzed by fear, had locked the screen in a panic. It took five agonizing seconds of explicit, damning audio before Beatrice shoved him aside and yanked the power cord directly from the wall.
The screen went violently black.
The silence that followed was louder than an explosion. Every single eye in the room slowly, terrifyingly shifted to Dominic Russo.
He hadn’t moved a muscle. His face was carved from granite, devoid of shock, anger, or humiliation. But his dark eyes had turned lethal, radiating a cold, predatory violence that made the air temperature in the room seem to drop ten degrees.
The glass of scotch in his hand suddenly shattered. Crystal cracked under the immense pressure of his grip. Amber liquid and blood dripped onto the marble floor.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Well,” Dominic said softly, his voice carrying through the dead-silent room like a funeral bell. “It appears the bride is delayed.”
The heavy oak doors of the ballroom burst open. Unaware of the execution she had just walked into, Chloe Davenport strode in, cheeks flushed, lips slightly swollen. She wore a bright manufactured smile, waving to the crowd. Liam trailed a few steps behind her, looking smug.
“Sorry I’m late, darlings,” Chloe announced, strutting toward the center of the room. “Dress malfunction.”
She stopped.
The crowd was staring at her with a mixture of terror, pity, and morbid fascination. No one clapped. No one cheered.
Chloe’s smile faltered as she looked at Dominic. She saw the bleeding hand. She saw the black projector screen. Then she looked at Senator Davenport, whose face had drained of all color.
“What’s going on?” Chloe stammered, her voice shrill.
