Chapter 9 - The Execution
Brendan didn't understand at first. He turned his head, expecting to see me crying on the screen, but his eyes locked onto the crisp, black-and-white seal of the Department of Justice.
Beneath the indictment was a high-resolution, color video loop: the security camera footage from the La Jolla private clinic from thirty-six hours prior.
The video clearly showed Dr. Kenneth Julian pocketing a thick envelope of cash from Brendan’s assistant, followed by the orderly carrying the cooler labeled *BENNETT, CHLOE*, and dumping my blood directly into the red biohazard container while Brendan sat five feet away in a VIP bed, laughing and toasting Mason with champagne.
The audio roared through the hotel’s surround-sound system with horrifying clarity.
*“Stop making such a big deal out of it. Chloe gets herself into everything. Nobody forces her.”*
“What is this?!” Brendan screamed, dropping the microphone. He scrambled toward the back of the stage, waving his arms at the control booth. “Shut it down! Cut the power!”
The double doors at the rear of the ballroom slammed open with a concussive bang.
A dozen federal agents in windbreakers bearing the yellow letters *FBI* strode down the center aisle, flanked by uniform officers from the San Diego Police Department. Leading them was the Assistant United States Attorney, flanked by my father, who held a thick leather portfolio under his arm.
“Brendan Vance!” the lead agent’s voice cut through the terrified silence of the ballroom. “Step away from the podium and place your hands behind your back!”
Across the room, Scarlett Montgomery tried to stand up, her diamond earrings swinging wildly as she reached for her father’s arm. But two female federal agents were already standing behind their chairs.
“Arthur Montgomery, Scarlett Montgomery,” an agent said, producing two sets of steel cuffs. “You are being detained in connection with an ongoing federal investigation into non-profit tax evasion and fraudulent corporate conspiracy.”
Scarlett shrieked, a high, desperate wail that shattered the last shred of her carefully curated high-society elegance. “Get off me! Do you know who I am?! Brendan, do something!”
Brendan couldn't do anything. He was trembling so violently that he lost his balance on the stage steps, stumbling down onto his knees in front of table twelve.
I walked down the stairs, stopping three feet away from where he knelt on the floor.
He looked up at me, his immaculate hair falling into his eyes, his designer tuxedo rumpled, tears of pure terror and humiliation cutting tracks through his makeup.
“Chloe...” he choked out, his voice reduced to a pathetic, ragged wheeze. “Chloe, please. It was a game. It was just a game for Scarlett, I swear to God! I didn't want to do the last ones! I love you, Chloe! You know I love you!”
I looked down at him. For three years, I had believed this man held the keys to my happiness. I had thought his coldness was my failure, that his indifference was a puzzle I was obligated to solve with my own suffering.
Now, looking at him huddled on the floor like a broken child, I felt nothing. No anger. No hatred. Only the clean, refreshing realization that he was infinitesimally small.
“Ninety-nine, Brendan,” I whispered, leaning down just enough so only he could hear me above the chaos of the flashing press cameras and shouting federal agents.
He blinked through his tears, terrified. “What?”
“This was revenge number ninety-nine,” I said softly. “And unlike yours, mine was entirely real.”
The federal agents pulled him up by his elbows, wrenching his arms behind his back. The sharp, metallic click of the handcuffs echoed through the room like the closing of a tomb.
As they dragged him down the aisle in full view of every major news outlet in the state, I turned my back on him, walked over to Leo, and smiled.
May you like
“Let’s go home,” I said.
***
