Chapter 4 - The Strike That Never Landed
Claire’s diamond-ringed hand swung through the air in a vicious arc aimed squarely at Margaret’s cheek. "You ruined everything!" Claire shrieked.
The blow never connected.
A leather-gloved hand clamped down on Claire’s wrist like an iron vise. The sheer force of the grip halted her arm mid-swing, freezing her in place with such abrupt authority that the champagne glasses on the nearby cocktail table seemed to hum from the vibration.
"Step back, young lady," a deep, gravelly voice commanded. The tone wasn't merely angry; it was backed by decades of military dominance.
Claire gasped in shock and pain, wrenching her arm back. "What the hell? Who touched me? Security! Arrest this old—"
The words died in her throat.
Standing between Claire and Margaret was a towering, silver-haired man in his sixties. He was clad in a tailored charcoal-grey Italian wool suit, his posture impeccably rigid, shoulders squared like a fortress. His chest bore no medals today, but the silver lapel pin on his collar matched Margaret’s gold compass pin with razor-sharp precision.
Two burly men in earpieces flanked him, their eyes scanning the perimeter with professional, lethal vigilance.
Derek blinked, stumbling back a step. His jaw dropped. "Wait... Chairman Vance? General Vance?"
General Marcus Vance did not even spare Derek a glance. Instead, he snapped his polished leather shoes together with a sharp, echoing click that stunned the entire VIP lounge into absolute silence.
Standing at strict military attention, the former four-star general and current Billionaire Chairman of Vanguard Group slowly brought his right hand up to his brow in a crisp, reverent, formal military salute.
He was saluting Margaret.
"Ma'am," General Vance announced in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder across the tarmac. "Your private jet is ready for takeoff."
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👉 Claire’s knees began to shake as she realized the man before them wasn't an airport bystander.
***
