Chapter 8 - The Untouched Crown
Before Grant could lunge or scream another threat, the heavy double doors at the back of the St. Claire ballroom swung open with a resounding thud.
Two federal agents in dark suits strode into the room, flanked by municipal police officers. Their boots struck the marble floor in a synchronized, heavy rhythm that commanded instant attention.
They didn't look at the wedding cake. They didn't look at the white roses.
They walked straight down the center aisle, their eyes locked firmly on the man standing beneath the floral arch.
Grant turned, his eyes going wide with blind terror as the agents stopped directly in front of him.
“Grant Holloway?” the lead agent asked, his voice deep and emotionless.
“I demand to speak to my counsel,” Grant stammered, backing up against the floral arrangement until a cascading waterfall of white orchids collapsed onto his shoulders, showering him in petals.
“You have the right to remain silent,” the agent recited smoothly, pulling a pair of cold steel handcuffs from his belt.
The sharp click of the cuffs locking around Grant’s wrists echoed across the silent ballroom.
As they hauled him backward down the aisle—past the empty seats of his fleeing business partners, past his mother who sat staring blankly at the floor in absolute disgrace—Grant caught my eye one final time.
May you like
There was no triumph left in his expression. Only a hollow, shivering realization of how completely he had underestimated the person he tried to control.
The doors closed behind them, shutting off the sound of his protests, leaving behind only the heavy, settling dust of a shattered illusion.
