The mechanical hum of the cathedral’s projection system vibrated through the stone floor like a low, ominous pulse.

At 8:00 AM the following morning, the glass skyscraper of DeLuca Global headquarters gleamed under the bright morning sun.

A black armored limousine pulled up to the front entrance. The doors opened, and Marcus Vance stepped out, holding a large umbrella to shield me as I stepped onto the granite plaza.

I wore a sharp, custom-tailored white suit—a striking contrast to the stained mourning veil I had discarded the day before. My hair was styled in a sleek, commanding bun, and my posture was absolute steel.

Around the plaza, hundreds of journalists were held back by high security barriers. Flashbulbs went off like a thunderstorm of artificial light as I walked up the grand steps.

"Mrs. DeLuca! Is it true Dominic has fled the country?!"

"Elena! Do you really have total control of the shipping fleets?!"

"What is your response to the murder charges against your husband?!"

I stopped at the top of the steps, turning to face the wall of cameras. I didn't hide. I didn't look down.

"Dominic DeLuca is no longer associated with this company, nor is he my husband as of this morning," I said clearly into the bank of microphones. "The legal proceedings for a full divorce and total asset seizure have been filed. DeLuca Global is entering a new era—one built on transparency, integrity, and absolute strength. Thank you."

Without taking another question, I turned and walked through the sliding glass doors into the main lobby.

The entire staff of DeLuca Global—over three hundred accountants, lawyers, operations managers, and department heads—were standing in the grand atrium. The moment I walked through the doors, a wave of hesitant quiet filled the space.

Then, Arthur Sterling stepped forward, clapping his hands.

Within seconds, the entire atrium erupted into a deafening ovation. The employees who had suffered under Dominic’s incompetent, abusive management for years were cheering, their faces lit with genuine hope and relief.

I walked toward the private executive express elevator. Marcus stepped inside with me, pressing the button for the 80th floor—the Chairman’s Penthouse Suite.

As the elevator accelerated smoothly upward, Marcus handed me a secure tablet. "Official report from the Federal Marshals, ma'am. Jessica Mercer is in federal custody. She is currently negotiating a plea deal with prosecutors, offering full testimony regarding Dominic’s offshore accounts in exchange for a reduced sentence."

"And Dominic?" I asked, watching the floor numbers flash rapidly.

"He slipped through the perimeter at the motel," Marcus said quietly. "He used a fake passport to board a private charter flight to South America late last night. We believe he is heading toward his family’s private villa in Colombia—an unlisted asset that was not included in the main corporate registry."

I looked at the tablet screen, seeing the satellite image of a secluded estate nestled deep in the tropical mountains near Cartagena.

"He thinks he can hide in the jungle with his stolen millions," I said softly.

"He forgets that Victor built that villa," Marcus replied with a subtle smile. "And every security system on that property was installed by my team."

The elevator doors chimed and opened onto the 80th floor.

I stepped out into Victor’s vast, sunlit office. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the city skyline and the ocean harbor beyond. The heavy mahogany desk sat in the center of the room, empty and waiting.

I walked over to the leather executive chair, placing my hands on the high back.

"Marcus," I said, looking out at the massive container ships docked in the harbor below.