The Heiress Who Auctioned Her Murderer

Chapter 2

The low murmur of five hundred panicked elites echoed off the vaulted ceilings of the cathedral. Guests were pulling out their phones, frantically dialing, only to find the signal jammers Vivienne had installed completely blocking their service. They were trapped in a gilded cage, and Desmond Vance was the rat in the center of the maze.

Desmond’s chest heaved. He ran a trembling hand through his perfectly styled hair, ruining the expensive pomade. He glared at Sloane, his cowardly nature instantly seeking the easiest target to bully.

"Are you out of your mind?" Desmond spat, stepping into Sloane's personal space, trying to use his height to intimidate her. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The merger, Sloane! The multi-billion dollar merger between our companies! It goes up in smoke if this wedding doesn't happen!"

Sloane laughed. It was a bright, musical sound that dripped with condescension. She adjusted the heavy diamond tiara resting in her blonde hair, looking utterly unbothered by his rage.

"Oh, Desmond," Sloane sighed, shaking her head. "You really do think I'm just a pretty, brainless pawn, don't you? You thought you could just dazzle me with a few chartered jets and a shiny ring, and I would happily hand over my family's remaining assets to save my father from bankruptcy."

"Your father owes three hundred million dollars to offshore creditors!" Desmond snarled, his voice vibrating with controlling fury. He leaned in, lowering his voice so the microphones wouldn't pick it up, though the acoustic dampening was failing him. "I am the only thing standing between your family and absolute ruin! If you sabotage this, I will personally see to it that your father rots in a federal penitentiary!"

"My father's debts are already paid," Sloane replied crisply.

Desmond froze. "What?"

"Paid in full. As of yesterday afternoon," Sloane clarified, casually inspecting her immaculate manicure. "Wired directly to the creditors from an untraceable holding company. Which means I don't need you, Desmond. I don't need your money, I don't need your fake charm, and I certainly don't need to marry a man who poisons women for a living."

Desmond’s mind raced, the gears grinding as he tried to comprehend the catastrophe. He turned slowly toward Vivienne, who was watching the exchange with a look of supreme, theatrical satisfaction.

"You," Desmond breathed. "You paid off her family's debt."

"Consider it a consulting fee," Vivienne said, stepping up beside Sloane. The two women stood shoulder-to-shoulder, a united front of devastating calculation. "Sloane was incredibly helpful in getting me past your biometric security at the altar. And she played the part of the smitten, oblivious bride flawlessly. You didn't suspect a thing."

"You're both insane," Desmond growled, retreating into his delusions of grandeur. He straightened his lapels, trying to project the absolute authority he was rapidly losing. "You think you've won because you crashed my wedding? I am the CEO of Croft Industries! I am the majority shareholder! I have an ironclad legal team that will tie you both in litigation for the next fifty years!"

"Ah, yes. Your legal team," Sloane chimed in, her sharp tongue clicking against her teeth. "The ones who drafted our prenuptial agreement."

"The prenup is airtight!" Desmond snapped. "It clearly states that in the event of a halted ceremony, the preliminary merger assets revert entirely to my control!"

"It *did* state that," Sloane corrected, her opportunistic smile widening into something feral. "In the draft your lawyers sent over last week. But do you remember what happened in the vestibule twenty minutes ago, Desmond?"

Desmond blinked, his mind flashing back to the frantic moments before the ceremony. He had been pacing the antechamber, fixing his cuffs, preparing to walk out in front of the cameras. Sloane had rushed in, breathless, accompanied by her notary. She had handed him a thick stack of papers.

*“Just the final signatures for the marital asset trust, darling,”* she had said, kissing his cheek. *“The lawyers need it filed before we say 'I do'.”*

Desmond hadn't read them. He never read the final drafts. He paid people to read them for him. He had just taken his platinum Montblanc pen and scrawled his name on the dotted lines, eager to get to the altar and secure his crown.

The blood rushed out of Desmond’s head so fast he swayed on his feet. "What did I sign?" he whispered.

Vivienne answered for her. "You didn't sign a prenuptial agreement, Desmond. You signed an Irrevocable Transfer of Assets. Specifically, you signed over every single share, property deed, offshore account, and patent currently held in the Vance marital trust."

"To whom?" Desmond demanded, his voice cracking violently.

"To me," Vivienne said smoothly. "The documents legally transferred one hundred percent of your liquid and non-liquid assets directly into the name of Vivienne Croft. Which, thanks to the thumbprint I provided the notary this morning, is a legally active entity once again."

"That's fraud!" Desmond screamed, spit flying from his lips. He pointed at the cameras, his cowardly desperation fully exposed. "That is illegal! You tricked me! I didn't read it!"

"Ignorance of the contract is not a legally defensible position, Desmond," Vivienne mocked, echoing the exact phrase Desmond had used to steal her father’s patents five years ago. She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with ruthless joy. "You signed the papers of your own free will. On camera, actually. Sloane’s maid of honor was filming it for TikTok. It was very cute."

"You have nothing," Sloane added, leaning into the microphone. "Your penthouses, your Cayman accounts, your shares in Croft Industries. You are completely, utterly broke."

"No!" Desmond roared, his hands pulling at his own hair. The narcissistic illusion of his invincibility had shattered into a million jagged pieces. He looked at the board members sitting in the front row. "Don't listen to them! I am still the CEO! I built this company into a titan!"

"You didn't build anything," Vivienne snapped, her voice cracking like a whip, silencing the massive room. The theatricality dropped away, revealing the raw, unyielding iron beneath. "You stole my designs. You stole my father's legacy. You possessed absolutely zero actual genius, Desmond. You are a parasite who thought he could kill the host and wear its skin. But the host woke up."

Desmond backed away from them, his breathing ragged. He was cornered. The doors were locked, the cameras were rolling, and his empire had just been legally vaporized. He needed to get out of the room. He needed to use physical force to break the stalemate.

He reached into his tuxedo jacket and yanked out his encrypted satellite phone. It was immune to the signal jammers.

"You think you're so smart," Desmond sneered, his finger jabbing at the keypad. "You think you can just walk in here and humiliate me? I am going to have my personal extraction team come through those stained-glass windows and drag you both out of here by your hair. You're going straight to a psych ward, Vivienne!"

He hit the call button and pressed the phone to his ear, his eyes locked on Vivienne in a desperate attempt to assert dominance.

The phone began to ring.

One ring. Two rings.

Suddenly, a heavy, rhythmic vibrating sound began to buzz. It wasn't coming from the phone in Desmond's hand. It was coming from immediately behind him.

Desmond froze. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Slowly, agonizingly, he turned around.

Standing less than two feet behind him on the altar was a man who resembled a walking mountain. Dressed in a sharply tailored black suit that stretched tightly over massive shoulders, the man had a thick, jagged scar running down his cheek and eyes as cold as a Siberian winter. He was Vivienne’s personal bodyguard, and he held a ringing cell phone in his massive hand.

The man pressed the green button on the screen and lifted the phone to his ear.

"You rang, sir?" the bodyguard asked, his deep, rumbling voice echoing through the microphone Desmond was still wearing.

Desmond stared at the man, the satellite phone slipping from his trembling fingers and clattering against the marble floor.

Vivienne walked up behind Desmond, leaning in close so her lips were mere inches from his ear.

"Checkmate, darling," she whispered.