Chapter 9 - The Execution
Pandemonium threatened to break out, but before Tristan could speak, before the bishop could intervene, the massive multimedia screens flanking the cathedral’s altar—installed to broadcast the ceremony to the rear pews—flickered violently.
The screens did not display the altar.
They displayed the high-resolution, unedited photograph of Tessa Jenkins asleep in Tristan’s Range Rover, his coat draped over her shoulders.
And beneath it, magnified ten feet tall for four hundred guests to read:
*“I can’t marry her. But as compensation, I’ll give you all my devotion.”*
A collective shriek tore through the front row. Tessa jumped to her feet, knocking her purse to the floor, her face completely drained of color as she stared at the screen in horror.
“Cut the power!” Tristan roared, his voice cracking into a high-pitched scream as he turned toward the technical booth at the back. “Cut the goddamn screens! Turn them off!”
The screens didn't turn off. They transitioned.
Next came the video from the bridal salon.
Crystal-clear, high-definition audio filled the cathedral’s surround-sound speakers:
*“That wedding isn't about her, Tessa. It’s an acquisition event. The dress is just a uniform. But next spring? I’m buying a villa in Lake Como... Zoe is a cold, clinical machine.”*
Grown men gasped. Society matrons covered their mouths in sheer disgust. Tristan’s mother, sitting in the third row, fainted backward into the arms of a hedge fund manager.
“You crazy bitch!” Tristan lunged toward me, his hands clawing at my shoulders, his polished veneer completely disintegrating into rabid violence. “You planned this! You ruined my life!”
Before his fingers could even graze the black silk of my sleeve, a massive hand caught him by the throat.
Logan Cross had stepped up onto the altar in a single, fluid motion. He shoved Tristan backward with brutal, effortless force, sending the groom sprawling onto his back across the altar steps.
“Take one more step toward her, Vance,” Logan said, his voice a low, terrifying growl that resonated through the room, “and you won't live to see the courtroom.”
Tristan scrambled backward on his hands and knees, staring up at me from the floor, panting like a cornered animal.
“You think this stops the IPO?” Tristan screamed, spit flying from his lips as he glared at me with pure hatred. “I am the CEO! I hold the master administrator keys to the core algorithm! I filed the SEC disclosure at midnight! The patents are mine! You’re nothing, Zoe! You’re just a glorified lab technician!”
I stepped slowly down the altar stairs, stopping three feet from where he lay crumpled on the marble.
“You filed the disclosures from Tessa’s terminal, Tristan,” I said, my voice carrying the steady, rhythmic cadence of a judge reading a death sentence. “Using the decoy files I planted on the server three months ago.”
Tristan froze. The color drained from his skin until he looked like a corpse.
“What?” he choked out.
“The IP assignment you signed two weeks ago wasn't an SEC filing,” I continued, pulling a folded legal document from the pocket of my black gown and tossing it onto his chest. “It was a personal indemnity forfeiture. By attempting to illegally reassign the patent rights of NeuroNova to your personal name, you triggered the moral conduct clause of your corporate charter.”
Arthur Sterling stood up from the front row, his commanding voice cutting through the hall.
“As chairman of the board and representative of Sterling Global Capital, I have officially called an emergency executive vote,” Arthur announced, looking at Tristan with utter disgust. “Tristan Vance has been unanimously terminated as Chief Executive Officer of Vance-Hastings Therapeutics, effective ten seconds ago. His shares have been seized under the breach of fiduciary duty covenants.”
“No... no, no, no!” Tristan whimpered, turning his head frantically toward the pews. “Marcus! David! Help me! This is a corporate coup!”
Nobody moved. Every board member sat frozen, looking at him like a diseased rat.
Two men in charcoal suits stepped out of the fourth row, flashing gold badges as they approached the altar.
“Tristan Vance?” the lead agent said, pulling a pair of steel handcuffs from his jacket. “I’m Special Agent Davis with the Securities and Exchange Commission, accompanied by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You are under arrest for federal securities fraud, grand larceny, and corporate embezzlement.”
The sound of the steel handcuffs ratcheting around Tristan’s wrists echoed through the cavernous cathedral.
He began to weep—ugly, snot-filled, pathetic sobs as the agents hauled him to his feet. As they dragged him down the center aisle past four hundred of his former peers, his gaze landed on Tessa.
Tessa was backing toward the side exit, trying desperately to slip away unnoticed.
“Tessa!” Tristan screamed, his voice breaking into a desperate wail. “Tessa, tell them! Tell them it was your idea! You told me to upload the files! You told me she was too weak to fight back! You did this to me!”
Tessa didn't even look at him. She shoved a reporter aside and bolted through the side drapes into the rain, leaving Tristan to be marched past the flashing cameras of fifty journalists who were already transmitting his ruin to every financial desk on Earth.
I stood at the top of the altar stairs, the black silk of my train flowing around me, completely, utterly victorious.
Logan stepped up beside me. He didn't say a word. He simply offered me his arm.
May you like
I placed my hand upon his sleeve. Together, we walked down the aisle, stepping over the scattered gardenias, stepping past the cameras, walking away from the ashes of a past I had finally burned to the ground.
***
