Three hours before I was supposed to marry Dylan Carter

The 45th floor of the Reynolds Tower was packed with nervous energy.

Twenty-two members of the board of directors, corporate attorneys, and senior partners sat around the massive oval glass table. At the far end of the room sat Thomas Sterling, Marcus’s estranged cousin and Dylan Carter’s primary inside operative on the board.

Thomas was sweating through his white collar, his fingers tapping anxiously on his iPad.

“We don't have a choice!” Thomas argued loudly to the assembled directors. “The public scandal has wiped thirty percent off our contract pipeline! The Carter Holdings bankruptcy is dragging our name through the mud! Under Clause 14 of the original partnership charter, if the majority shareholder brings gross disrepute to the firm, the board has the right to vote on a forced equity buyout at fair market value!”

“Ava Reynolds did not bring disrepute to this firm,” an elderly female director countered sharply. “Her ex-fiancé was a criminal who was arrested yesterday in an alleyway!”

“It doesn't matter who started it!” Thomas shouted, slamming his hand onto the table. “What matters is the market perception! The institutional lenders are threatening to call in our short-term credit lines by noon today! If we don't remove Ava as Chairwoman and appoint an interim restructuring committee, Reynolds Architecture will be insolvent by Friday!”

“Is that so, Thomas?”

The heavy double glass doors swung open.

Every single director snapped their head toward the entrance.

I walked into the boardroom. I wore a tailored ivory power suit, my hair swept back into a sleek, flawless chignon. My heels clicked with rhythmic, terrifying confidence against the white marble border of the room.

Behind me walked Marcus Sterling, carrying two thick leather briefcases.

And beside me walked Julian Vance.

The temperature in the room plummeted. Thomas Sterling turned the color of curdled milk. Several of the younger directors immediately stood up out of sheer instinctual respect—or fear—of Julian Vance’s presence.

“Miss Reynolds,” Thomas stammered, scrambling to adjust his glasses. “This is an executive board session. Mr. Vance is not a member of the Reynolds Architecture board. He cannot be present in this room.”

“Mr. Vance owns fifty-one percent of your firm’s primary debt facilities, Thomas,” Julian said smoothly, pulling out the head chair at the table and holding it for me. “Which means that until that debt is cleared, I have the contractual right to attend any and all meetings where my collateral is being discussed.”

I sat down at the head of the table—my grandfather’s chair.

Julian remained standing just behind my right shoulder, his arms crossed over his chest, casting a massive, intimidating shadow over the entire room.

“I heard you talking about short-term credit lines, Thomas,” I began, opening a slim black folder in front of me. “You told the board that the banks are calling in our loans because of my ‘public scandal’.”

“That is correct,” Thomas said, trying to regain his footing, though his voice wavered. “City National and J.P. Morgan have both sent notice of covenant breach.”

“Marcus,” I said without looking up. “Distribute the real notices.”

Marcus walked around the table, dropping a single sheet of paper in front of every director.

“Those aren't covenant breach notices,” I said, looking directly down the table into Thomas’s terrified eyes. “Those are wire transfer confirmations. At eight o'clock this morning, Vance Global Capital purchased all outstanding debt from City National and J.P. Morgan at par value. The loans have been extended for thirty-six months at zero percent interest.”

A stunned murmur rippled through the board.

“Which means,” I continued, leaning forward on my elbows, “this company owes zero dollars to any external commercial bank. Our only creditor is Vance Global. And Mr. Vance has already signed a proxy voting agreement granting all credit oversight directly to me.”

Thomas’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. “Ava... that’s... that’s irregular. That’s a conflict of interest—”

“What’s a conflict of interest, Thomas,” I cut in, my voice turning to pure steel, “is the fact that your offshore account in Belize received a five-hundred-thousand-dollar wire transfer from *L&B Holdings* three days before my wedding.”

The room went dead silent.

Thomas stopped breathing. The color completely drained from his face, leaving behind a sheen of cold sweat.

“You thought because Dylan’s name was on the corporate charter, you were safe,” Marcus Sterling said, staring down his cousin with cold disgust. “Did you really think we wouldn't trace the IP addresses of the leaks to the press? You were the one feeding the tabloids the narrative about Ava’s ‘emotional instability’. You were planning to force a buyout so that you and Dylan’s hidden creditors could buy Reynolds Architecture for pennies on the dollar.”

I stood up. The authority radiating from my presence pinned every director to their seats.

“Clause 9 of the corporate charter,” I stated clearly. “Any board member found engaging in acts of treason against the corporation forfeits their voting shares and faces immediate termination for cause.”

I looked at the corporate secretary. “Record the vote. All those in favor of immediately expelling Thomas Sterling from this board and referring his financial files to the Manhattan District Attorney, raise your hands.”

Twenty-one hands shot into the air without a second of hesitation.

Thomas sat alone, trembling violently in his chair.

“Security is waiting outside the door, Thomas,” I said, closing my folder with a clean, sharp snap. “You have three minutes to clear your desk before you’re escorted to the street.”

Two security guards entered, flanking Thomas and hauling him out of the room. His desperate pleas for mercy faded down the hallway, muffled by the heavy acoustic glass.

I turned back to the remaining board members, whose expressions had shifted from panic to absolute reverence.