Chapter 7 - The Toxic Toast
Inside the east wing guest suite, Camille Foster was losing her mind.
For thirty-six hours, she had been locked away from the world. Her cell phone had been seized, her laptop confiscated, and her elegant silk robe was now wrinkled from pacing the polished hardwood floors like a caged tiger.
The heavy oak door unlocked with a sharp click.
Camille spun around, expecting a guard or a food tray. Instead, the door swung open wide, revealing Ethan Whitmore standing in the threshold.
He looked immaculate. His charcoal suit was tailored to perfection, his hair neatly combed, and his expression entirely unreadable—the quintessential Ice Man.
"Ethan!" Camille rushed toward him, her face instantly shifting from panic to a theatrical, tearful mask of wounded innocence. She reached out to grab his lapels. "Thank God! You have to listen to me! Those guards are out of their minds! They locked me in here, they took my phone, they treated me like a criminal! It was all a misunderstanding—Daniel was just helping me with wedding logistics, and Richard... Richard must have gone rogue! You know how ambitious he is!"
Ethan didn't flinch. He didn't step back, nor did he push her away. He simply let her talk, watching her performance with cold, clinical detachment.
When she finally paused for breath, her green eyes searching his face for any sign of softness, Ethan spoke.
"Are you finished?" he asked quietly.
Camille blinked, her theatrical tears drying up instantly. "What?"
"Richard Vance was arrested by the Department of Justice this morning," Ethan said smoothly. "He confessed to industrial espionage, leaking our shipping manifests to Victor Crane, and coordinating your medical sabotage operation. Furthermore, Daniel Miller is currently singing like a canary in a federal holding facility in downtown Chicago. He gave us the entire ledger, Camille. Every wire transfer, every offshore routing number, and every single text message between you and Victor Crane detailing how you planned to quietly poison me over the course of our engagement."
The blood drained from Camille’s face so rapidly she staggered backward, her hip hitting the corner of the mahogany dresser.
"That... that's impossible," she whispered, her voice trembling violently. "Daniel wouldn't... Victor has too much protection—"
"Victor Crane is currently being held without bail on federal conspiracy charges," Ethan interrupted, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "Your little corporate coup is over, Camille. Whitmore Global Logistics is intact, my legal team has frozen every single asset in your name, and your father—the retired federal judge—has already been informed by the DOJ of your impending indictment."
Camille stared at him, the mask completely shattering. The terrified, elegant socialite vanished, replaced by a cornered, desperate animal.
"You can't do this to me!" she screamed, lunging forward with her fingernails clawing at the air. "I'm supposed to be Mrs. Ethan Whitmore! I’m supposed to own twenty percent of this empire!"
Ethan easily caught her wrists, holding her hands away with effortless strength. He leaned down, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly low whisper right beside her ear.
"You were never going to be my wife, Camille," Ethan said coldly. "You were just an expensive placeholder in a hostile takeover that failed. And as for the wedding tomorrow?"
May you like
He released her wrists, letting her stumble back against the dresser.
"The ceremony is still happening," Ethan continued, a dark, razor-sharp smile touching his lips. "All five hundred guests will be there. The cameras will be rolling. The press will be watching. And you will be the star of the show—just not in the way you planned."
