Chapter 2 - The Blue Lights of Beverly Hills
Within four minutes, the wail of sirens ripped through the quiet neighborhood.
Grace jumped to her feet, knocking over her water goblet. "Elena! Hang up that phone right now! You are ruining this family's reputation over a minor marital disagreement!"
"Sit down, Grace," I replied, pressing a cloth napkin against my bleeding forehead.
The front doors of the estate swung open as four uniformed Beverly Hills police officers and two paramedics rushed into the dining room with tasers and medical kits drawn.
The scene was undeniable: me, standing soaked in blood and cream sauce amidst shattered porcelain, and Jackson, sweating profusely with sauce on his hands.
"Who called 911?" the lead sergeant demanded.
"I did," I said, stepping forward. "My husband threw that porcelain platter directly at my face after I refused his financial demands."
"Officer, it was an accident!" Jackson stammered, raising his hands. "She lunged at me, and I tripped while holding the plate!"
"Check the security cameras in the corner of the ceiling, Sergeant," I stated coldly, pointing to the dome lens mounted above the dining room archway. "And ask any of the eighteen people sitting at this table under penalty of perjury."
The sergeant turned to Charles Montgomery. "Sir, did you witness the assault?"
Charles swallowed hard, looking at his son, then down at the blood on the floor. "I... I didn't see clearly, Officer. It happened very fast."
"Every single one of you is going on record," the sergeant warned.
Paramedics immediately escorted me to the ambulance, cleaning the wound, bandaging my skull, and administering IV fluids for shock. As the gurney was loaded into the rig, I watched two officers force Jackson’s arms behind his back, snapping steel handcuffs around his wrists while Grace screamed hysterically from the portico.
At Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, trauma surgeons closed the wound above my eyebrow with fourteen precision sutures.
Sitting beside my hospital bed at 2:00 AM was Arthur Vance—my uncle and the senior managing partner at Vance, Sterling & Cross, the premier corporate litigation firm in California.
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"Elena," Uncle Arthur said, his eyes filled with fierce, protective resolve as he reviewed the police report. "The restraining order has been signed by the duty judge. Jackson is held without bail on felony assault with a deadly weapon and domestic violence charges."
"Uncle Arthur," I whispered, touching the bandage on my head. "It's time to pull the plug on Montgomery Holdings."
