"And the beneficiary?"
There was a slight pause on the line. "A private account at First National. The registered owner of the receiving account is a Dr. Richard Evans."
Marcus didn't say another word. He lowered his hand and pressed his thumb against the screen, cutting the call.
The click of the phone hanging up severed the last string holding Eleanor’s world together.
The wealthy guests who had been standing near her physically recoiled. A woman in a green silk gown literally pulled her dress away from Eleanor, stepping back in absolute revulsion. The social circle she had commanded for two decades evaporated in an instant, leaving her completely isolated in the center of the marble floor.
Eleanor dropped her hands. The panic in her eyes twisted into something vicious, cornered, and incredibly ugly.
"I did it for you!" she screamed, her voice cracking, echoing violently off the walls. She pointed an accusing finger at the space where I stood, her face twisted in pure class prejudice. "You were meant to take over your father's empire! You were meant to marry me! She was a nobody! A pathetic, poor girl who would have dragged you into the gutter! That bastard child would have ruined our legacy!"
"Legacy?" Marcus repeated, his voice dangerously soft.
He didn't yell. He didn't scream. He simply looked at the woman he had lived with for twenty-five years with an expression of such total, consuming hatred that it silenced her instantly.
"You stole my life," Marcus said, every word measured and deliberate. "You made me stand in a hospital chapel and pray for a child that you knew was alive. You let me bury an empty coffin."
"Marcus, please—"
"My lawyers will be at the estate by midnight," Marcus interrupted, his voice cutting through her desperate plea like a scalpel. "The accounts are frozen. The locks will be changed. You will leave with exactly what you brought into my life twenty-five years ago. Nothing."
Eleanor opened her mouth, a sob tearing from her throat, but she had nothing left to say. Her power was entirely gone, shattered by a bank record and a piece of old notebook paper.
Marcus turned his head slowly, finding the venue manager, Mr. Sterling, who was still cowering near the kitchen doors, looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
"Sterling," Marcus barked.
The manager flinched, stepping forward frantically. "Yes, Mr. Hayes. Anything you need, sir."
"You were so eager to remove the trash from my presence a moment ago," Marcus said, gesturing coldly toward his wife. "Do your job. Escort Eleanor out of this building. If she resists, have your guards drag her out the service elevator."
Mr. Sterling blinked, looking from the billionaire to the ruined socialite. He knew exactly where the power in the room resided. He straightened his jacket, clearing his throat, and walked directly toward Eleanor.
"Ma'am," Sterling said, his voice entirely devoid of the groveling tone he had used earlier. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave the premises."