Chapter 2 - THE FLASH DRIVE OF DOOM
It was a small, matte-black USB drive.
I pulled it out slowly, letting the afternoon sun catch the metal casing. Ivan’s eyes locked onto it, and for the first time all afternoon, genuine panic flickered across his face. He took a sharp step forward, his hands twitching at his sides. “Elena, put that away. Don’t make a scene in front of the board members.”
“A scene?” I echoed, my voice carrying clearly across the quiet, tense yard. “Ivan, you just branded my hand in front of fifty witnesses and a security lens. The scene is already streaming live to my cloud storage.”
Cynthia finally found her voice, screeching through her sauce-stained pearls. “How dare you talk to your husband that way! Look at my dress! Look at what you’ve done to this family! Ivan, call the police and have this ungrateful parasite removed from our home!”
“Your home?” I turned my gaze to her, letting the coldness settle deep into my bones. “Cynthia, the deed to this house has been in my maiden name since the day we bought it. In fact, every mortgage payment for the last five years came out of my personal account, not Vanguard’s slush fund.”
The murmurs among the guests grew louder. Several of Ivan’s top executives exchanged nervous glances. They knew Vanguard Development was on the verge of securing a massive municipal contract next week, and a domestic violence scandal involving the CEO was corporate poison.
Ivan forced a tight, trembling smile, trying to salvage his dignity. He pasted on his best corporate-pitch grin, stepping smoothly toward the crowd. “My wife is clearly suffering from exhaustion and a temporary mental lapse,” he announced loudly, projecting authority. “We’ve been under a lot of stress. I’ll handle this privately inside. Everyone, please, grab another drink. The party continues inside.”
Not a single person moved.
The executives stood frozen with their glasses raised halfway to their mouths. The neighbors whispered behind manicured hands. No one wanted to be associated with a man who burned his wife’s hand over undercooked poultry.
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“The party’s over, Ivan,” I said, stepping backward toward the gate. “And by Monday morning, your office keycard won't even open the front door of Vanguard Development.”
Before he could lunge at me again, I dropped the USB drive into my pocket, spun on my heel, and walked out of the backyard, leaving behind a ruined barbecue, a furious husband, and a crumbling empire.
