Before he could respond, the private executive elevator at the end of the suite chimed.
The heavy doors slid open, and the true architect of the nightmare walked onto the floor. My ex-mother-in-law, Victoria Vance, stepped into the suite wearing her trademark Chanel suit and a face of calculated, aristocratic iron.
She stopped cold when she saw the tableau: Dominic on his knees by the table, the baby monitor screen active, and me standing over them with the legal dossier.
“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Victoria demanded, her voice cutting through the sterile room like a blade. “Dominic, the restructuring vote begins in ten minutes. Why are you wasting time with her?”
I turned around slowly to face her. “The vote is canceled, Victoria.”
PART 2
Victoria’s eyes darted from the legal files on the table to Dominic’s broken posture, her composure faltering for a fraction of a second before her cold, country-club arrogance returned.
