"What Daniel and Patricia have failed to realize is that every single luxury they currently enjoy—from the penthouse Daniel rents downtown, to the silver Carolina Herrera gown his mother is wearing right now—exists solely by my grace."
Patricia’s face twisted in outrage. The faux-aristocratic mask shattered completely.
"How dare you! You ungrateful little bitch!"
My son is the Chief Operating Officer of NexaCore Technologies! He built that company from the dirt while you sat in a dark corner doing data entry!
"You should be on your knees thanking God that a man of his caliber looked twice at you!"
A murmur of agreement rippled through Patricia’s side of the aisle. For over a year, Daniel had spun an elaborate web of lies to his family and friends.
In his narrative, he was the visionary tech titan behind NexaCore, and I was merely a sweet, introverted accountant he took pity on and brought along for the ride.
I let her finish. I waited until the echo of her shriek died down against the cathedral ceilings.
Then, I smiled.
"You're half right, Patricia," I said gently. "Daniel *was* the Chief Operating Officer of NexaCore Technologies."
Daniel stiffened. "Claire, stop this nonsense."
"You can't fire me. The board—"
"The board?" I cut in, a crystalline laugh escaping my throat.
"Daniel, who do you think comprises the voting majority of NexaCore?"
The color instantly drained from his face. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
"Eighteen months ago," I said, addressing the room, "Daniel joined NexaCore as a junior vice president. When the founding board restructured, I allowed him to take the title of COO."
I stayed out of the press because I value privacy. I let him take the credit on LinkedIn, in tech magazines, and at venture capital summits.
"I thought giving him the spotlight would build his confidence. I didn't realize it would feed a monster."
I turned slowly to face Daniel.
"You own four percent of NexaCore’s equity, Daniel. A non-voting, sweat-equity allotment subject to performance and ethical clauses."
I own sixty-eight percent. I am not just your fiancée.
"I am your founder, your majority shareholder, and the sole Chairman of the Board."
The ballroom went deathly quiet. You could have heard a pin drop onto the marble floor.
"And as majority shareholder," I continued, my voice slicing through the stillness like a surgical blade, "effective at precisely two-fifteen this afternoon, your employment as Chief Operating Officer of NexaCore Technologies is terminated for cause."
"You... you can't do that," Daniel stammered, his eyes darting frantically toward his friends, looking for support that was no longer there. "You can't just fire me!"
"We have contracts! We have—"
"We have an ongoing forensic audit," I corrected him calmly. "Which brings me to you, Patricia."
Patricia flinched as if I had struck her.
"For seven months, you have held the phantom title of 'Senior Strategic Cultural Consultant' at NexaCore, drawing a salary of twenty-two thousand dollars a month."
"During that time, you logged zero client meetings, submitted zero deliverables, and charged over one hundred and forty thousand dollars of personal shopping, spa weekends, and bespoke dresses to the corporate ledger."
I pointed directly at the silver dress she was wearing.
"Invoice number 8842, billed to NexaCore as 'Offsite Strategy Materials.' That dress belongs to my company, Patricia."
"And you, too, are officially terminated."
Patricia let out a strangled, breathless squeak. Her hands flew to her throat, her chest heaving as if the air had been sucked out of the room.
"Daniel! Daniel, do something!"
"She’s humiliating us! Tell her she can't do this!"
Daniel lunged forward again, this time trying to snatch the microphone out of my hand. "Claire, give me that!"
You've ruined everything! Do you know what this will do to my reputation?
"To our investors?"
Before he could lay a finger on the microphone, two large figures moved swiftly up the steps of the altar.
Frank and Thomas—head of private security for NexaCore—stepped between Daniel and me like an iron wall. Frank was six-foot-four and built like a vault door.
He placed one heavy, gloved hand squarely against Daniel’s chest, shoving him back two full paces.
"Step back, Mr. Sterling," Frank said, his voice a low, rumbling warning. "Keep your hands to yourself."
"Frank? What the hell are you doing?"
Daniel screamed, his voice cracking into a high pitch. "I sign your paychecks!"
"No, Mr. Sterling," Frank replied impassively. "Miss Vance signs my paychecks."
"Miss Vance signs everyone's paychecks."
I stepped around Frank, looking down at Daniel, whose tie was now crooked and whose hair was falling across his forehead in frantic strands. The polished, charismatic executive had completely disintegrated, replaced by a terrified boy who had just realized the floor beneath him had opened into a bottomless pit.
"As of twelve minutes ago," I said, checking the slim platinum watch on my wrist, "corporate IT has revoked your security credentials, your remote server access, and your email accounts."