Chapter 4
The golden light of the chandeliers seemed to dim slightly as the reality of the documents settled over the ballroom. High-society elites who had spent millions to secure invitations to this wedding were now leaning forward, their expressions shifting from polite boredom to predatory curiosity. Scandal of this magnitude among the billionaire class was a rare, intoxicating spectacle.
Douglas stared at the wristband in Marcus's hand, his lower lip trembling visibly. The patriarch of the Mercer empire—a man who routinely bought and sold corporations with a stroke of a pen—looked suddenly ancient, his face drained of every drop of color.
"Where... where did you get that?" Douglas whispered, his hand reaching out instinctively toward the table, only to pull back as if the leather briefcase were burning hot. "I was told... Juliette told me the body was unrecognizable. The DNA report from the county morgue matched."
"The county morgue didn't run DNA, Douglas. Juliette did," Caroline said, her voice cutting through the heavy air like glass. She took two slow, barefoot steps closer to the altar, her hospital gown swishing softly against the marble floor. "She provided hair samples from my hairbrush—mixed with tissue from an unclaimed Jane Doe from the city morgue—to the corrupt medical examiner on your payroll."
Juliette’s face contorted with fury, the polished mask of the blushing bride cracking completely. "Shut up! Just shut your filthy mouth!" she screamed, lunging forward toward the edge of the dais before her bridesmaids frantically grabbed the tulle of her gown to hold her back. "You’re insane! You’ve always been jealous of me! You couldn't stand that Dad gave me the managing share of the foundation, so you staged your own disappearance to ruin my wedding!"
"My disappearance?" Caroline repeated, a dark, humorless smile touching the corner of her lips, stark against her burn scars. "Is that what we're calling attempted murder now, Juliette? A disappearance?"
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"You signed the transfer orders for the private clinic yourself, Juliette," Marcus added smoothly, pulling a crisp, heavily stamped document from the briefcase. He held it up for the front rows to inspect. "Official financial wire transfers from Juliette Mercer’s personal offshore account to Dr. Alistair Vance—no relation of mine—totaling two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, paid in weekly installments across thirty-six months to keep a living witness comatose and hidden."
The silence in the room became absolute. Even the string quartet hiding in the balcony had stopped playing entirely.
