1272 The Billionaire Chairwoman’s Revenge: He Publicly Mocked My Pregnancy At His Promotion Gala—Until I Walked On Stage, Seized His Empire, And Fired Him As His Boss

The rain had turned into a full-blown gale by the time we exited through the private subterranean garage of the courthouse, bypassing the media frenzy at the main doors.

Inside the back of the Suburban, the hum of the engine was the only sound for several long minutes. Elena was hunched over her laptop, her fingers flying across the keys as she monitored the court filings.

"The Appellate Division has already assigned an independent special referee to seize Margaret Vance’s financial records," Elena said, letting out a long, ragged exhale that sounded like she had been holding it for a week. "Victoria... you did it. The custody petition is dead. They can’t refile. Not without paternity, and certainly not with Margaret under federal scrutiny."

I leaned my head back against the leather headrest, closing my eyes for a single brief moment. My body was aching, every muscle in my lower back screaming under the strain of the confrontation. My daughter was moving restlessly inside me, sensing the adrenaline that had pumped through my veins for the past three hours.

"It’s not dead yet," I said, opening my eyes and looking at the gray concrete pillars of the Midtown tunnel as we accelerated into Manhattan. "Eleanor was right about one thing. The Geneva Heritage Partners hold the offshore proxy. If they execute the insolvency clause based on the court scandal, Sterling Global's international credit lines will freeze at midnight."

"Frank is already at the Plaza Athenee," Elena said, checking her phone. "The senior trustee, Henri Dumont, agreed to meet you. But Victoria... Dumont was your father’s oldest rival before he became the trustee. He doesn't care about the Vance family, and he doesn't care about family drama. He only cares about the balance sheet."

"Good," I said, adjusting my coat. "I prefer dealing with sharks who understand numbers over sociopaths who believe their own lies."

Twenty minutes later, we were ushered into a private penthouse suite at the Plaza Athenee.

The room was warm, decorated in muted gold and dark velvet, overlooking the rain-slicked trees of Central Park. Sitting at a low glass table was Henri Dumont, a man in his late seventies with iron-gray hair, wearing a three-piece charcoal flannel suit and gold-rimmed spectacles. Beside him sat two Swiss private bankers, their leather briefcases open, documents stacked with military precision.

"Victoria," Dumont said, rising and bowing slightly with old-world European formality. He did not offer a handshake, merely gesturing toward the armchair opposite him. "You look remarkably like your mother. She, too, had a habit of creating storms in Manhattan while expecting Zurich to weather the costs."

"I didn't create this storm, Henri," I said, taking the seat while Frank took his position by the heavy double doors. "Eleanor Vance created it with money she stole from my company."

"Money is fungible, my dear," Dumont said smoothly, pouring himself a cup of black tea from a silver pot. "Your domestic complications do not concern the trustees of Geneva Heritage. What concerns us is stability. Under the 1998 covenant your father signed, thirty-five percent of Sterling Global’s voting shares are held in escrow. If the chair of the board is incapacitated or embroiled in a scandal that threatens the enterprise value by more than twenty percent, the trustees are mandated to vote those shares in favor of institutional restructuring."

He slid a document across the table toward me.

"As of four o'clock today, Sterling Global stock dipped nine percent on rumors of the custody battle. When the markets open in Frankfurt tomorrow morning, we anticipate a further decline. Under Article 12 of the covenant, the trustees have decided to exercise the proxy."

"To whom?" I asked, keeping my voice utterly devoid of emotion.

"To a court-appointed conservator," Dumont replied, looking at me over his glasses. "We cannot allow an expectant mother facing ethics investigations, family warfare, and endless litigation to captain a twelve-billion-dollar multinational conglomerate. You need rest, Victoria. Step aside for six months. Let our management team run the company. After the child is born and the legal fallout settles, we will revisit your standing."

"Six months," I repeated softly. "And in those six months, you will carve up the logistics division, sell off the South American assets to your partners in Frankfurt, and dilute the Sterling family share until my daughter inherits a hollow shell."

Dumont didn't flinch. A faint, cold smile touched the corners of his mouth. "It is the prudent financial course."

"It would be," I said, leaning forward, resting my forearms on the glass table. "If the 1998 covenant were still valid."

Dumont paused, his teacup halfway to his mouth. "The covenant is an irrevocable Swiss trust instrument, Victoria. It was verified by the federal banking authorities in Bern thirty years ago."

"It was," I agreed. "Until my mother died three years ago."

I reached into Elena’s briefcase and brought out the small, leather-bound diary—not the legal files, not the financial statements, but my mother’s personal journal from 1998.

"My father didn't hide his mistress from my mother, Henri," I said quietly. "He hid his bank accounts. Because in 1998, when he signed that covenant with you in Zurich, he used the Sterling family estate in Newport as collateral. The only problem was... that estate didn't belong to him. It belonged entirely to my mother's bloodline under the Winthrop trust of 1922."

I opened the back cover of the diary, slicing through the delicate silk lining with a small silver letter opener.

Tucked neatly inside the binding was a yellowed, parchment-thin document bearing the original wax seal of the Rhode Island Chancery Court, signed by Henri Dumont himself thirty-five years ago.

"My mother discovered the fraud in 2001," I whispered. "She never confronted my father because she wanted to keep the family intact. But she made you sign this counter-deed, didn't she, Henri? A personal indemnification guarantee. If Geneva Heritage ever attempted to enforce the covenant without the written consent of the Winthrop heir, your personal assets in the Geneva Cantonal Bank would be forfeit to satisfy the estate's liabilities."

Dumont’s face went completely, utterly gray. The gold-rimmed spectacles slid slightly down the bridge of his nose.

The two Swiss bankers beside him looked at the paper, then looked at Dumont, their expressions turning instantly into cold, professional horror.

"She kept it," Dumont murmured, his voice barely a rasp. "She told me she burned it."