Chapter 9 - The Ambush at the GalaThe courtroom victory was a staggering blow to Andrew, but the war wasn't completely won until the funding was severed. As long as the CEO of Weston Holdings, a ruthless billionaire named Richard Sterling, continued to fund Andrew’s legal harassment, the shadow over my daughter's future remained.
I needed to cut the head off the snake. And I needed to do it publicly.
Two nights later, the Metropolitan Museum of Art was hosting its annual Winter Charity Gala. It was the epicenter of New York’s financial elite. Richard Sterling was the guest of honor.
I arrived at the Met in a backless, sweeping gown of liquid-gold sequins. It was the ultimate revenge dress. Harrison walked beside me in a bespoke black tuxedo, playing the role of my devastatingly handsome, razor-sharp escort.
"You ready for this?" Harrison murmured, leaning in close, his breath warm against my ear as the paparazzi flashbulbs exploded around us.
"I was born for this," I whispered back, stepping onto the red carpet.
The moment I walked into the grand ballroom, the ambient chatter died down. The sea of billionaires parted. I was the woman who had walked away from an empire with nothing and built a fortress on her own. Every eye in the room tracked my movements.
I spotted Richard Sterling immediately. He was standing near the champagne fountain, laughing with a group of investors.
I walked directly toward him, Harrison a silent, lethal shadow at my side.
"Richard," I said, my voice projecting clearly over the soft string quartet.
Richard’s smile froze. He tried to maintain his aristocratic composure, but the sudden, terrifying realization that I was no longer a victim was evident in his eyes. "Well. If it isn't the runaway wife. I hear your little consulting firm is doing quite well."
"It’s doing incredibly well," I smiled—a cold, terrifying expression. "Which is why I find it so confusing that you would waste two hundred and fifty thousand dollars of your shareholders' money funding my ex-husband’s frivolous custody lawsuit."
The surrounding investors gasped, stepping back. The music seemed to stop.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Richard hissed, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You have no proof."
"I don't need proof, Richard. I have a federal subpoena," I said, pulling my sleek, diamond-encrusted clutch open. I handed him a folded legal document. "My attorney, Mr. Vance, filed it this afternoon. It officially requests the SEC to investigate the Cayman Island shell company you used to wire the funds to Andrew."
Richard’s face drained of every drop of color. He looked at the subpoena, his hands trembling violently.
"If that goes public, your stock plummets," I whispered, stepping entirely into his personal space, radiating absolute ruin. "You committed wire fraud to harass a mother and child, just because I poached three of your clients. You are pathetic."
"What do you want?" Richard choked out, realizing his entire empire was on the verge of collapsing over a petty grudge.
"I want the funding severed tonight," I dictated, my eyes hardening into diamonds. "I want you to call Andrew’s lawyer and withdraw every dime. And if Weston Holdings ever attempts to interfere with my business or my family again, I will personally hand this document to the New York Times."
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Richard swallowed hard, nodding in absolute defeat.
I turned my back on the ruined billionaire, took Harrison’s arm, and walked away, leaving the elite of New York staring at me in absolute, unadulterated awe.
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