Chapter 3 - THE EMBROIDERY OF VENGEANCE
The Prescott Estate on Point Loma sat on a cliff overlooking the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean—a sprawling, limestone mansion surrounded by private gardens, helicopter pads, and armed security patrols. It was a world away from the grimy downtown apartment I had fled three hours earlier.
When our SUV pulled through the iron gates, a team of six private stylists, tailors, and security personnel were already standing on the front steps, waiting for us.
"Welcome home, Miss Prescott," the chief butler bowed respectfully as the driver opened my door.
I walked straight up the marble staircase to my childhood suite. Waiting on a velvet mannequin in the center of the room was a wedding dress—but not the cheap forty-dollar polyester rag Christian had rented for me.
This was a custom Vera Wang gown made of French Chantilly lace, hand-embroidered with thousands of microscopic diamonds that caught the sunlight like liquid stars. Sitting beside it on a velvet cushion was the Prescott family tiara—a seventy-carat diamond and sapphire heirloom that had belonged to my great-grandmother.
"Your father had this brought in from our vault in London last week, Charlotte," my mother said softly, standing in the doorway as the stylists began working on my hair and makeup.
I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror. Gone was the exhausted, pale girl who spent her evenings washing grease off cheap plastic dishes. In her place stood a woman with sharp hazel eyes, high cheekbones, and an aura of absolute, unshakeable authority.
"Miss Prescott," my father's chief of security, Marcus, said as he stepped into the room, holding a encrypted tablet. "Christian Reynolds and Brooklyn Vance have just arrived at the Grand Monarch Hotel. They brought the three loan sharks with them."
"Did they bring the forged notary papers?" I asked calmly, holding still as a makeup artist applied a bold crimson lipstick to my lips.
"Yes, ma'am," Marcus replied. "They searched the minor banquet room on the second floor first. When they found it empty, Christian threw a fit at the front desk. The manager, acting on your father's instructions, informed Christian that his 'wedding' had been upgraded to the Imperial Ballroom on the top floor due to a 'special corporate sponsorship.'"
I let out a soft, dry laugh. "And he believed it?"
"Christian’s ego is vast enough to swallow an ocean, Miss Prescott," Marcus smiled faintly. "He immediately assumed one of his venture capital contacts had arranged the upgrade to impress him. He and his entourage are currently riding the private elevator up to the Imperial Ballroom, completely unaware that the room is already filled with two hundred high-profile guests."
"What about the Mexican clinic connection?" I asked, turning my head as the master tailor secured the back of my diamond-embroidered gown. "The underground surgeons Brooklyn mentioned for the organ theft?"
Marcus’s face hardened. "Federal agents from the FBI and Homeland Security Investigations were briefed two hours ago using the audio logs from your apartment. A tactical team is currently raiding the border clinic in Tijuana as we speak. The doctors involved are already in handcuffs."
A cold sense of satisfaction bloomed in my chest, but I knew the main show was still waiting for us downtown.
My father walked into the room, wearing a bespoke charcoal tuxedo with a dark blue silk bowtie. He looked at me in my diamond dress, his eyes glistening with pride and fierce protection.
"You look like a Prescott, my sweet girl," my father said softly, offering me his arm. "Are you ready to show San Diego who you really are?"
I adjusted the diamond tiara on my head, stepped into my nine-hundred-dollar silk heels, and took my father's arm.
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"Dad," I said, my voice echoing off the high ceilings of the estate. "I want to destroy him so completely that even his shadow won't dare walk in this city again."
My father smiled warmly. "Then let's go to your wedding, Charlotte."
