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Chapter 5: The Flashbulbs

Three news vans and over a dozen freelance paparazzi, tipped off by the viral live stream, surged up the driveway. Flashbulbs erupted like a strobe light in a nightclub.

Sienna screamed, a raw, guttural sound of pure terror. She had practically nothing on. She dove into the footwell, covering her face.

Alistair scrambled, frantically trying to throw his suit jacket over her while attempting to pull his own trousers up. He was blinded by the flashes, completely exposed in the driver’s seat of the open convertible.

Every single frame was captured in high definition.

Detective Brody Vargas pushed his way through the wall of cameras. He had just spent an hour crying to fifty thousand people that his fiancé had been driven to suicide by an evil CEO.

He stood frozen at the edge of the driveway, staring down into the Aston Martin. The phone in his hand was still broadcasting live to 100,000 viewers.

“Brody…” Sienna sobbed from the floorboards, clutching Alistair’s jacket. “Brody, please, let me explain.”

“Explain?” Brody’s voice cracked. His eyes were bloodshot, his face a mask of absolute devastation. “You told me she was destroying your life. You told me you wanted to die! And you’re here… doing this?”

A reporter recognized the man in the driver’s seat.

“Wait, isn’t that Professor Thorne? The Ivy League golden boy?” “Professor, aren’t you married to Victoria Sterling?!” “Is it true you’re sleeping with your wife’s assistant?!”

The microphones were shoved into Alistair’s face. He turned ash-white, raising his hands to block the lenses. “Get off my property! This is illegal!”

Brody snapped. He lunged over the door of the convertible and grabbed Alistair by the throat.

“You bastard!” Brody roared, slamming Alistair back against the leather seat.

Alistair tried to throw a punch, but he was an academic, not a fighter. He curled up, trying to shield his face.

The cameras captured every second of the humiliation.

I stepped out from the shadows of the hedges. The media parted for me instantly, the flashbulbs turning my way. I was wearing a sharp, tailored black coat, looking every inch the untouchable executive.

Sienna looked up from the footwell, her eyes locking onto mine. Panic morphed into cornered-animal venom.

“You set me up!” Sienna shrieked hysterically, pointing a trembling finger at me. “You wanted to ruin me! You drugged me! I didn’t want to do this; she put something in my drink!”

The press swarmed me. “Ms. Sterling! Did you drug your assistant?”

I smiled. It was a cold, terrifying smile. I pulled an iPad from my leather tote bag and held it up to the nearest broadcast camera.

“This is the surveillance footage from a Boston hotel parking lot, six months ago,” I said clearly. The video showed Alistair and Sienna kissing passionately against the Range Rover.

“This is from the university staff room, three months ago.” The video showed Sienna sitting on Alistair’s lap.

“And as for the drugs…” I swiped to a photo. “This is the invoice for the illicit aphrodisiacs purchased under Sienna Blake’s own credit card. Furthermore, I invite Detective Vargas to analyze the footprints left on the inside of my vehicle last week. Size six.”

The driveway fell dead silent, save for the clicking of camera shutters.

Brody Vargas looked at Sienna with sheer disgust.

Sienna’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. “Tori… please…”

“We’re done here,” I announced to the press. “My legal team will handle the rest.”

I turned to walk away. Sienna let out a scream of rage. “You did this on purpose! You bought the convertible to humiliate me!”

Before she could finish the sentence, Brody backhanded her. Sienna slumped back against the seats, a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth.

“You made me a clown in front of the whole world,” Brody whispered, his voice trembling with rage. “I’ll process the footprint evidence myself. The wedding is off.”

Brody turned and walked away into the night.

The paparazzi descended on Alistair like vultures. “Professor! Care to comment?!”

Alistair climbed out of the car, his clothes rumpled, his dignity shredded. “Victoria!” he yelled at my retreating back. “You were supposed to be in Chicago!”

I stopped. I reached into my tote bag, pulled out a thick manila envelope, and threw it at his chest. It hit him and scattered across the driveway.

“Divorce papers,” I said without looking back. “Sign them.”

Behind me, I heard a thud. Someone yelled, “The Professor just passed out!”

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