15. Hostile Takeover #2
Sebastian stood tall and immovable. He raised a hand, his expression flat and unyielding. His presence alone felt like a shield. I loosened my death grip on the wireless microphone. The cool metal slid a fraction of an inch in my sweaty palm, and I let my shoulders drop.
For the past year, Warren had controlled my space, my firm, and my life. Now, he couldn’t even take a single step toward me. The wall of men made it undeniable. He would never touch me again. The nightmare was done.
“Save the performance for the judge, Davenport,” Sebastian said, his voice cutting through the humid air. “If you take one more step toward my client, the security team will restrain you.”
Warren realized there was no getting past them. He craned his neck, trying to catch my eye over Sebastian’s shoulder. Without his slick charm, he just looked pathetic and cornered. He pointed a shaking finger at the speakers above the crowd.
“You don’t understand. This is a setup!” Warren pleaded. “Juniper, tell them you’re just confused about the recording!”
Naomi took one look at Warren’s pathetic standoff at the base of the stairs.
Refusing to spare him another glance, she abandoned him.
As she pivoted, her heels gave a sharp clack against the wet tile.
Gathering the sweeping folds of her silk gown in one fist, she fled toward the main exit at the far end of the conservatory.
The fifty guests did not block her path. Instead, they parted in revulsion. Men in bespoke suits and women in evening dresses shrank back, scraping their soles across the floor to avoid brushing against her gown. Naomi stumbled through the parted sea of disgusted faces.
She really thinks she can just walk away from this. She still believes she is above the consequences.
The security guards were ready for her to run. Two men broke away from Sebastian’s flank, their thick boots pounding over the tile.
“Lock the perimeter,” the taller guard commanded.
They reached the double doors seconds before Naomi did. The men squared their shoulders, crossing their arms to form a solid barricade in front of the brass handles.
Naomi pulled up short. She spun around, frantically looking for another set of doors. There were none. The high transparent walls of the conservatory left her completely exposed, returning only a cold reflection of the room. She was trapped inside a massive, illuminated cage.
“Get out of my way!” Naomi shouted. She shoved an open hand against the taller guard’s chest. “Move aside. You have no right to hold me here.”
I braced my heels against the wooden floorboards of the stage and raised the microphone back to my mouth.
“There is nowhere to run,” I projected through the overhead speakers, ensuring my voice reverberated against the glass ceiling. “The exits are secured, and you have exactly nowhere to hide.”
Naomi whipped her head around, her blonde hair falling in a messy tangle. She glared up at the stage, her face twisted in a desperate snarl.
“And the police are coming to get you,” I continued, holding her gaze from the elevated platform. “They are going to take you exactly where you belong.”
The wealthy investors and fashion elites stared at her. The room remained completely silent, leaving only the hum of the climate control and the heavy scent of the orchids.
“What a disgusting woman,” an older female investor muttered from the edge of the crowd, making no effort to mask her revulsion. “And to think, we all almost bought their vile lies.”
Naomi flinched. Her shoulders curled inward as the insult echoed off the glass panes. I watched her shrink under the collective sneers of the very people she had tried to steal from.
The main double doors of the conservatory swung open. A biting winter draft swept into the stagnant, humid venue, cutting straight through the heavy floral air. Four uniformed police officers marched across the threshold. The private security guards stepped aside to grant them entry.
The officers moved with blunt purpose, their boots striking the hard tile.
“Clear a path,” the lead officer commanded, sweeping a hand toward the lingering guests. “Step back.”
The crowd parted further, pressing themselves against the glass walls. The officers converged on the center of the room. Two advanced on Naomi, and two moved on Warren.
The men grabbed Naomi first. An officer twisted her arms behind her back, ignoring the protesting rustle of her silk gown. She didn’t even try to fight them off. The metallic ratchet of steel handcuffs rang across the silent room, a mechanical click, click locking her in place.
Warren didn’t go down as easily. When the officers seized his arms, he planted his leather shoes against the tile. He tried to pull away, fighting them. They forced his arms behind his back without hesitation. The steel cuffs locked around his wrists, binding his hands together.
“Warren Davenport and Naomi Mercer,” the lead officer announced. “You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder. Keep your hands behind your back.”
“Officer, please, I can explain everything!” Warren pleaded, twisting his neck to look over his shoulder. “You are arresting the wrong people. This is a massive misunderstanding!”
He actually thinks he can act his way out of a felony. His arrogance was staggering. He had spent the last year relying on his polished charm to manipulate every person in this room. He believed that same trick could erase the undeniable audio confession.
“You have the right to remain silent,” the lead officer said, talking over his excuses. “I highly suggest you use it, because everything else you say is going in the report.”
I stepped back from the edge of the staging platform. I slid the wireless microphone into the metal clip on the wooden podium. I pressed my palm flat against my pregnant belly, focusing on the steady, living presence of my child.
“Let them through,” Sebastian instructed the remaining security detail at the entrance.
The guards parted, clearing the path to the winter night. The officers shoved Warren and Naomi forward, parading them through the remnants of the party in complete disgrace. Naomi kept her head down, hiding her face from the glares of the crowd.
Warren stumbled over the threshold, his tuxedo ruined by the awkward, constrained posture. The freezing air surged back into the room as the doors swung wide. Outside, the flashing red and blue lights of the parked cruisers cast a rotating strobe across the glass panes.
I watched with unblinking focus from the stage as the police marched my husband and my best friend out of the venue, knowing my baby was finally safe.