Chapter 3The Lazy Queen Reclaims Her Throne

Monday morning.

Crestview Holdings, 36th floor. The executive boardroom.

The massive mahogany table was packed with the company’s directors and senior VPs. Almost all of them were Harley's loyalists—men and women he had promoted, bribed, or coerced over the last decade.

Right now, the room smelled like cheap coffee and panic.

At the head of the table sat Harley. His face was a sickly shade of gray, the veins in his eyes red and inflamed.

Beside him, acting as his 'Special Executive Assistant,' Camilla looked like a wilted flower. Her usual flawless blowout was messy; the designer makeup couldn't hide the dark circles under her eyes.

Friday's legal carpet-bombing had hit them like a Category 5 hurricane.

Subpoenas. Frozen accounts. SEC whistleblowers.

Harley couldn't wrap his mind around it. How did the woman who spent the last ten years watching Netflix and tending to a rose garden suddenly execute a corporate assassination with sniper-like precision?

Worse—how did she know about the Delaware shell companies? The books had been cooked to Michelin-star perfection.

"Harley, what the hell is going on here? Why did Betty revoke your proxy?" one of the older directors demanded, his voice cracking with anxiety.

Corporate accounts were frozen. Half a dozen major development sites had halted construction. The stock ticker was bleeding out in pre-market trading.

Harley took a ragged breath, trying to project authority he no longer possessed.

"Everyone, please, calm down. This is merely a domestic dispute that has unfortunately bled into the office. I assure you, my wife and I will have this sorted out quietly."

"A domestic dispute?" An elderly man near the end of the table scoffed. It was Richard, one of my father’s original founding partners who Harley had sidelined into irrelevance years ago. "A domestic dispute involves throwing plates, Harley. It doesn't involve the federal authorities freezing our operational liquidity. You better start talking!"

Camilla leaped in, putting on her best fragile-but-brave voice. "Richard, please. It's a massive misunderstanding. Betty is just... she's having an emotional episode. A breakdown."

"A breakdown?" Richard glared at her. "From where I'm sitting, it looks like you two finally got caught with your hands in the cookie jar!"

The boardroom erupted into chaos. Men in expensive suits shouting over each other.

Right at that moment, the heavy double oak doors swung open.

I stepped into the room. I wore a razor-sharp, ivory power suit and a pair of stiletto heels that clicked against the hardwood like gunfire. Arthur Prescott shadowed me, carrying a leather briefcase.

The shouting died instantly. The silence was absolute.

Every pair of eyes locked onto me. Shock. Confusion. Hostility. Fear.

I ignored all of it. I walked a straight, unhurried line toward the head of the table.

Harley stared at me, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a rabid kind of hatred.

"Betty. What the hell do you think you're doing here?"