He Set Up My 8-Year-Old Daughter at His Wedding… Then the Wedding CCTV Revealed Everything
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Chapter 4 / 9
Chapter 5
The basement archives of the Valeon Tower felt like a tomb.
Far below the gleaming marble floors and buzzing glass elevators, the air here was thick with dust and the smell of decaying paper. Row upon row of metal filing cabinets stretched into the darkness, holding decades of corporate secrets.
Ethan walked down the narrow aisles, a flashlight in one hand and a master keycard in the other. Elias walked silently behind him, watching their flanks.
“The digital records only go back fifteen years,” Elias whispered, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls. “If the original purchase order for the East End land still exists, it’s down here in the hard copies.”
Ethan didn’t reply. His jaw was set in stone.
For years, he had believed his mentor, Arthur Valeon—the man who found him in an orphanage, paid for his education, and handed him this empire—was a savior.
Now, Ethan wasn't so sure.
They reached Sector 4. The section dedicated to acquisitions made twenty-four years ago.
“Start pulling files from November,” Ethan ordered, yanking open a rusted metal drawer.
For an hour, they sifted through thousands of yellowed documents. Receipts, tax forms, zoning permits. Nothing about the East End apartments.
Just as Ethan was about to slam a drawer shut in frustration, his flashlight caught something odd.
A folder misfiled in the back of a drawer labeled ‘Charitable Donations’. The folder was thick, sealed with a red wax stamp that had cracked over time.
Ethan pulled it out. The label read: *Project Phoenix*.
He broke the seal and opened it on top of a cabinet. Elias shined his light directly onto the pages.
There it was.
The original blueprint for the Valeon Financial Tower. But the date on the blueprint was from *before* the fire.
“They had the designs drawn up while people were still living in those apartments,” Elias muttered, tracing the lines of the building. “They needed that land. But the tenants wouldn’t sell.”
Ethan flipped to the next page. It was a payment ledger.
*Payment to R. Willis - $50,000 (Case Expedited)*
The detective who wrote the fake police report.
*Payment for demolition crew - $20,000*
And then, the final line. A line that made Ethan’s blood run ice cold.
*Payment to M. Vance for property clearance - $100,000*
“Marcus Vance,” Ethan whispered, the name tasting like poison in his mouth. “He wasn't Vice Chairman back then. He was just an acquisition manager.”
“He orchestrated the fire,” Elias concluded softly. “He burned down your home, nearly killed your mother, and used it to climb the corporate ladder.”
Suddenly, a harsh metallic clang echoed through the archives.
The heavy steel door at the end of the aisle had slammed shut. The electronic lock engaged with a loud beep.
Then, the overhead lights flickered and died, plunging the basement into absolute, suffocating darkness.
Only the beam of Ethan’s flashlight pierced the black.
“Elias,” Ethan said, his voice deadly calm.
“Yeah,” Elias replied, drawing a sleek black handgun from his coat. “We’re locked in. And I don’t think we’re alone down here.”
Footsteps echoed from the far side of the archives. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy boots on concrete.
Marcus Vance knew they were looking. And he was not going to let them leave this basement alive.
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Chapter 6
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of silk, diamonds, and flashing camera lenses.
It was the annual Valeon Charity Gala. Hundreds of the city’s elite mingled under massive crystal chandeliers, sipping champagne and discussing billions of dollars in deals.
But tonight, the atmosphere was thick with tension.
Rumors about Ethan Cole’s mental state had reached a boiling point. The board had leaked rumors that the CEO was suffering from severe trauma-induced hallucinations.
At the center of the room stood Marcus Vance, smiling charmingly, playing the role of the concerned Vice Chairman.
“It’s truly a tragedy,” Marcus told a group of reporters, feigning sadness. “Ethan is a brilliant man. But the pressure, combined with his childhood trauma… it has finally broken him. He’s brought a delusional old woman into the penthouse, claiming she’s his dead mother.”
“Is the board taking action, Mr. Vance?” a reporter pressed.
“We must protect the company, and its shareholders, first,” Marcus said smoothly.
Suddenly, the massive double doors of the ballroom swung open with a violent crash.
The string quartet abruptly stopped playing.
Conversations died instantly.
Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the flashing bulbs of the paparazzi, was Ethan Cole.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored navy tuxedo. His posture was imposing, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. He didn't look like a broken man. He looked like a king arriving for war.
And on his arm, holding his hand delicately, was Martha.
The crowd gasped.
She was no longer wearing the faded blue cleaning uniform. Martha was dressed in a stunning, custom-made silver evening gown. Her silver hair was elegantly styled. She looked incredibly dignified, carrying a quiet strength that commanded the room.
She wore elegant silk gloves that went past her elbows, hiding the terrible burn scars.
Ethan walked slowly down the center of the room, parting the sea of billionaires and politicians. He led his mother straight toward Marcus Vance.
Marcus’s smile vanished. His face paled slightly as Ethan stopped inches from him.
“Marcus,” Ethan said loudly, his voice carrying across the dead-silent ballroom. “You were telling the press about my mental state. Please, continue.”
Marcus quickly recovered, putting on a condescending smile. “Ethan, you shouldn’t be here. You need rest. And you shouldn't drag this poor, confused woman into your delusions.”
Martha stepped forward. Her eyes, identical to Ethan’s piercing gaze, locked onto Marcus.
“I am not confused, Mr. Vance,” Martha said, her voice surprisingly steady and clear. “I remember everything. I remember my son. And I remember the night you came to the East End apartments.”
The room erupted into shocked whispers.
Marcus’s eyes widened in genuine panic. “Security! This woman is insane! Get them out of here!”
“Nobody moves!” Ethan roared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
He pulled a thick, red-sealed folder from inside his tuxedo jacket.
“This,” Ethan held up the folder, “is Project Phoenix. A ledger from twenty-four years ago, detailing payments made by Marcus Vance to commit arson. To burn down a building full of families just to secure real estate.”
Camera flashes exploded like lightning in the ballroom.
“Lies! Forgeries!” Marcus shouted, sweating profusely. “He made that up! He’s trying to ruin me because he’s lost his mind!”
Ethan smiled. A cold, terrifying smile.
“I didn't think you'd confess, Marcus. That's why I brought a guest.”
From the back of the ballroom, Elias Thorne walked in. Beside him was an old man in a wheelchair, breathing through an oxygen tube.
It was retired Detective Robert Willis. The man who had faked the police report.
Marcus Vance took one step backward, realizing instantly that his reign of terror had j
