Chapter 7 - THE AFTERMATH AND THE ALLEYWAY
By Tuesday morning, Ivan’s downfall was front-page news. Financial blogs, local news channels, and social media platforms exploded with the details of Vanguard Development’s collapse. The video of the backyard barbecue—where Ivan forced my hand onto the hot grill while Cynthia watched in her sauce-stained dress—went viral globally, racking up millions of views within twenty-four hours.
Public outrage was swift and brutal. Protesters gathered outside Vanguard headquarters. Sponsors dropped contracts overnight. The board of directors officially stripped Ivan of all executive titles and opened an internal forensic audit into his personal spending.
I spent Tuesday locked in my downtown loft, meeting with top-tier corporate restructuring consultants. We were preparing to rebrand Vanguard Development under its original, pre-Ivan name: Aether Holdings. I would take over as official CEO and chairwoman.
By Wednesday evening, desperate for fresh air, I stepped out to a quiet downtown artisanal coffee shop. The cool evening breeze felt incredible against my skin. My hand was healing nicely under the loose gauze, the angry red burns fading into a dull ache.
Suddenly, a dark figure lunged out from the shadow of a brick alleyway beside the cafe.
“You ruined my life!” a raspy, unhinged voice screamed.
Before I could react, a pair of rough hands grabbed my shoulders, shoving me violently against the cold brick wall. I gasped, dropping my coffee cup as it shattered across the pavement.
It was Ivan.
He looked unrecognizable. His designer suit was wrinkled and stained, his hair matted, and his eyes bloodshot and frantic. He had been locked out of his accounts, abandoned by his high-society friends, and hounded by reporters.
“You took everything!” Ivan snarled, his face twisted in pure rage as he pinned me against the wall with his forearm. “My company, my money, my reputation! You absolute bitch, I’ll make sure you pay for this!”
I didn't scream. I didn't panic. Remembering the feel of the grill, a cold, sharp strength surged through my veins.
“Take your hands off me, Ivan,” I whispered, my voice completely steady.
Instead, he raised his fist back, ready to strike.
Click.
The bright flash of a high-powered camera cut through the dim alleyway.
Ivan froze, blinking furiously against the light.
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Stepping out from the adjacent alley shadows was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a sharp tailored trench coat, holding a professional DSLR camera. It was David Vance—Marcus’s estranged younger brother and a top-tier investigative journalist specializing in corporate corruption and domestic abusers.
“Smile for the evening news, Ivan,” David said smoothly, snapping a second photo. “Assaulting your estranged wife in a public alleyway while facing federal embezzlement charges? That’s definitely going to add a few extra years to your prison sentence.”
