Chapter 6 - Fracture
Brendan stood frozen in the center of the Del Mar ballroom, his face drained of every drop of color.
Around him, the very people whose approval he had spent his entire life courting—venture capitalists, federal judges, old-money matriarchs—were staring at him with undisguised disgust.
“Turn it off!” Brendan roared, his voice cracking as he lunged toward the AV booth at the back of the room. “Turn that damn thing off!”
Nobody moved to help him. Mason had already slipped out through the catering exit, his head down, desperately trying to avoid the lenses of three independent society bloggers who were already livestreaming the debacle to tens of thousands of viewers. Liam was engaged in a screaming match with Tiffany, whose father—a major real estate developer—was currently threatening to pull his funding from Liam’s startup.
I didn't run. I didn't cry.
I picked up my keys and my lipstick from the floor, dropped them into my purse, and walked out the front doors of the estate into the cool night air.
A black sedan pulled up to the curb. The passenger door swung open.
“Need a ride, champion?” Leo asked from behind the wheel.
I slid into the leather seat and slammed the door shut. As Leo accelerated down the coastal highway, leaving the flashing lights and chaos of the Montgomery estate behind us, I looked in the side mirror. Brendan was standing on the gravel driveway, waving his arms, surrounded by private security officers who were now treating him like an active trespasser.
“That was scheme ninety-seven,” Leo said, glancing at me with a mixture of awe and respect. “The audio feed went out over four regional press channels. Every arts sponsor in Southern California is listening to it right now.”
“It’s not enough,” I said, resting my head against the cool window. “Scheme ninety-eight is already in motion.”
Leo frowned, checking his rearview mirror. “What’s ninety-eight?”
“My studio,” I whispered.
For the past year, I had been pouring every penny of my savings into opening the *Pacific Coast Movement Academy*—a small, non-profit dance studio in downtown San Diego aimed at providing classical ballet training to low-income students. The final commercial lease signing was scheduled for tomorrow morning at nine.
Brendan had offered to handle the escrow deposit through his family’s private wealth firm as a "gift" for our three-year anniversary.
“He didn't put the money in escrow, did he?” Leo asked, his voice tightening.
“No,” I replied, opening my banking app on my phone. The notification was already waiting for me: an overdraft warning from the commercial leaseholder. “He redirected the funds to an offshore holding account under Mason’s name, then filed a fraudulent lien against the property claiming my business was a shell company laundering unlicensed donations.”
If the lien cleared tomorrow morning, I wouldn't just lose the studio. I would be arrested for commercial fraud before lunchtime.
“They wanted to break me completely,” I said, watching the streetlights blur into long streaks of gold. “Scarlett didn't just want me humiliated. She wanted me in an orange jumpsuit so she could tell the world that the girl who beat her was nothing more than a common thief.”
“Well,” Leo said, a cold, dangerous smile spreading across his face, “they made one critical mistake.”
“What’s that?”
“They forgot that your father isn't just an accountant from San Bernardino,” Leo replied, tapping a fresh folder sitting on the dashboard. “He’s the senior forensic investigator who spent ten years dismantling the Mediterranean real estate tax shelter that Arthur Montgomery used to buy his Del Mar mansion.”
My phone buzzed in my lap. It was a text from Brendan.
**Brendan:** *You think you’re smart, Chloe? You just ruined my family’s reputation. Check your studio account. You have until eight o'clock tomorrow morning to sign a public retraction and apologize to Scarlett, or the DA is going to serve an indictment at your parents' house.*
I didn't reply.
Instead, I forwarded the screenshot directly to Leo’s encrypted drive.
May you like
“Call your dad, Chloe,” Leo said, turning the car toward the downtown legal district. “It’s time to show these boys what happens when you play games with people who actually know how to work.”
***
