Chapter 4 - The Country Club Counter-Punch
On Wednesday evening, the prestigious Oak Bay Country Club hosted its annual Spring Charity Gala. It was the premier social event of the season, a four-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner where Arthur Vance was scheduled to receive a lifetime achievement award for his "philanthropic contributions to veterans' services." The irony was sickening, but it provided the perfect tactical battlefield.
I arrived at 7:30 PM, wearing my Class-A Marine Corps dress blue uniform. My medals caught the chandelier light, and my rank insignia gleamed on my shoulders. I was accompanied by Marcus and two off-duty Force Recon veterans who acted as my security escort.
The moment I stepped into the grand ballroom, the clinking of champagne glasses faltered. A ripple of whispers spread through the crowd of Seattle’s wealthiest powerbrokers as they recognized the "unstable, PTSD-crazed wife" from the gossip blogs walking with the upright, imposing stride of a tactical commander.
Arthur, Victoria, and Julian were standing near the open bar, surrounded by board members and local politicians. When Julian saw me, he spilled his scotch onto his tuxedo cuffs. Arthur’s face darkened, and he whispered furiously to two club security guards stationed near the entrance.
The guards approached me, looking nervous as they eyed my dress uniform and the two massive Marines flanking my sides. "Ma'am," the lead guard stammered, "Mr. Vance has requested that we escort you off the premises. This is a private event."
"I am a member in good standing, gentlemen," I said clearly, projecting my voice so the surrounding tables could hear. "My dues were paid from my joint account with Julian Vance. Unless the club committee has voted to ban active-duty military officers from charity events honoring veterans, I suggest you step aside."
The guards hesitated, looking back at Arthur, who was glaring at them. Before they could make a decision, the club president took the stage at the front of the room and tapped the microphone, calling for attention to begin the awards ceremony.
I walked straight to the front table, taking an empty seat directly across from Victoria and Chloe. Chloe turned pale, her eyes darting to my hands as if she expected me to pull a cleaver from my dress jacket.
As the club president began his glowing introduction of Arthur Vance, praising his "unwavering integrity and support for our troops," I turned to Victoria and leaned forward slightly.
"You should have checked your sources before you went to the press, Victoria," I whispered, my tone conversational and pleasant. "You told the city I hallucinated an attack."
"You did," Victoria hissed through a fake smile, nodding to an acquaintance across the room. "You are crazy, Elena. And when Arthur gets off that stage, the police are going to remove you in handcuffs."
"Look at your cell phone, Victoria," I replied calmly.
She frowned, reaching into her beaded clutch and pulling out her iPhone. At that exact second, cell phones across the entire ballroom began to chime and buzz in unison. Marcus had used a specialized automated distribution list to send an email to every single registered member of the Oak Bay Country Club simultaneously.
May you like
Victoria opened the message. Attached was the unredacted, high-definition video file of Arthur striking me across the face, followed by Chloe’s email demanding I drop my investigation into Vance Industries under threat of false criminal charges.
Around the ballroom, gasps and horrified murmurs erupted as four hundred of Seattle’s elite watched their celebrated philanthropist commit violent domestic battery on their screens.
