Chapter 4 - THE SHOCKWAVE ACROSS THE DYNASTY
Before Natalie could retort, a deafening sound echoed from the grand entrance of the ballroom. The heavy mahogany doors swung open with a resounding crash, revealing a contingent of federal agents in dark tactical suits, flanked by local police detectives and high-ranking officials from the Manhattan District Attorney's office.
At the front of the procession strode Chief Prosecutor Marcus Vance—Arthur’s estranged eldest son and Natalie’s biological father, who had been conspicuously absent from family gatherings for the past decade. Marcus looked older, grayer, and utterly devastated, carrying a heavy leather briefcase under his arm.
"It’s over, Natalie," Marcus said, his voice cracking with a mixture of profound grief and icy resolve. He didn't look at his daughter; instead, his eyes locked onto Chloe with an expression of agonizing remorse. "The warrants have been signed. The DNA sequencing from the federal database matches. You are not a Vance. You are Clara Sterling."
Natalie let out a shrill, bird-like scream of denial that echoed off the vaulted ceilings. "Dad! Are you insane? Have you lost your mind too? Arrest them! Arrest this bitch and her accomplices! I am the sole heir! Grandfather promised me everything!"
"I promised you nothing, you ungrateful parasite," Arthur interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, lethal register. "I simply gave you enough rope to hang yourself. For six years, I watched you play your little games, assuming I was too old, too blind, or too senile to notice that my real granddaughter had been locked away in a private psychiatric facility in Switzerland while an imposter wore her face and squandered her legacy."
The ballroom erupted into sheer pandemonium. Reporters trampled over one another, shouting questions, thrusting microphones forward, and capturing every agonizing detail of the elite family’s public execution. Socialites scrambled toward the exits, desperate not to be caught in the blast radius of the greatest scandal in Wall Street history.
Julian, Natalie’s polished, golden-boy fiancé, stepped back as if he had been physically struck. His face drained of all color. He looked at Natalie—the woman he was scheduled to marry in two weeks, the billionaire heiress he had tied his entire political and financial future to—with sheer horror and disgust.
"Is this true?" Julian demanded, his voice shaking with disbelief as he grabbed Natalie’s bare shoulder. "Are you a fraud? Are you penniless?"
May you like
Natalie slapped his hand away, her eyes wild with feral desperation. "Julian, don't listen to them! It’s a conspiracy! My grandfather is senile! He’s senile and manipulated by this pathetic maid!"
"The maid," Marcus Vance interjected coldly, stepping forward and opening his leather briefcase, "is the rightful owner of fifty-one percent of Vance Global shares, transferred legally and irrevocably by your grandfather this morning. And you, Natalie—or whatever your real name is—are facing federal charges of identity theft, wire fraud, conspiracy, and illegal confinement."
