Chapter 5 - The Drake Hotel
The Gold Coast Room of the Drake Hotel was packed with over two hundred journalists, sports photographers, television crews, and local high-society figures by eight-thirty the following morning.
The air buzzed with excitement. Banners bearing the crest of Whitaker Racing and Apex Global hung from the gilded balconies. On the raised stage stood a podium flanked by two microphone stands and a silk-draped easel containing the secret new car livery design.
Chase Whitaker stood near the backstage curtain wearing a crisp dark suit, his hair slicked back perfectly. Brielle stood beside him in a sharp red dress, adjusting his silk tie and whispering in his ear. Chase looked confident, broad-shouldered, radiating the arrogant charm of a driver who had just secured a fifty-million-dollar racing contract.
"Where is Vance?" Chase asked, looking at his watch nervously. "He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago."
"He’s finalizing the press releases downstairs," Brielle assured him, patting his lapel. "Don't worry, babe. Everything is set. Once you sign the master agreement on stage, Vivian won't be able to touch a single dollar of the Apex advance. My lawyer ensured the affidavit stated she abandoned the marital home last night."
Chase grinned, pulling her in for a quick kiss. "You’re brilliant, you know that?"
"I know," she purred. "Now go out there and smile for the cameras."
At 8:55 AM, the heavy double doors at the back of the Gold Coast Room swung open.
The flashbulbs began immediately, but they weren't pointed at the stage.
A quiet hush swept through the crowd, starting at the back rows and rolling forward like a cold wave. Journalists turned in their seats, camera crews scrambled to adjust their lenses, and whispering broke out among the television anchors.
Walking through the center aisle were eight men in identical tailored charcoal suits—Matteo DeSantis’s personal security detail.
Directly behind them walked Matteo.
He looked majestic, cold, and utterly lethal in a three-piece navy pinstripe suit, a silver silk tie pinned with a platinum bar.
And resting comfortably on his left arm was me.
I wore a high-collared, long-sleeved silk gown in deep emerald green that completely covered my neck and shoulders, tailored so precisely it moved like liquid around my ankles. My dark hair was swept up into a sleek, elegant chignon, exposing my jawline. My lip had been expertly disguised by Julian’s medical compound and a shade of deep crimson lipstick that made me look fierce, untouched, and terrifyingly regal.
And on my left ring finger, flashing under the harsh television spotlights, was the heavy platinum band with the black diamond.
Chase’s jaw dropped. The color drained from his face so fast he looked as though he were about to vomit onto his polished leather shoes.
"What... what is she doing here?" Chase stammered, taking two involuntary steps backward into the curtain. "Brielle, what is this?"
Brielle stared at me, her eyes wide with sheer terror. She recognized the gown—it was a custom piece from a private Italian house that cost more than her annual salary. But more than that, she recognized the man standing beside me.
Matteo did not walk to a guest chair. He walked straight up the center steps onto the raised stage, his heavy leather shoes echoing against the wooden risers.
The entire room went dead silent. Not a single journalist dared to interrupt.
Matteo stopped three feet from Chase. He didn't look at the cameras. He didn't look at the banners. He looked directly into Chase's pale, trembling eyes.
"Mr. Whitaker," Matteo said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the silent hall without the aid of a microphone. "I believe you are holding a press conference to announce your technical partnership with Apex Global."
Chase swallowed hard, his throat clicking loudly. "DeSantis... this is a private corporate event. You have no right to be on this stage."
"I own the Drake Hotel, Mr. Whitaker," Matteo replied smoothly, a faint, terrifying smile touching his lips. "I have every right to be on every square inch of this property."
A quiet gasp rippled through the press corps.
Matteo turned slightly, extending his hand toward me. I stepped forward, taking his fingers, and stood beside him on the center of the stage. The black diamond ring caught the light of forty cameras at once.
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"Furthermore," Matteo continued, his voice ringing like a bronze bell through the ballroom, "I am here to inform the media that all technical software, telemetry algorithms, and performance patents associated with Whitaker Racing are the sole intellectual property of Vance-DeSantis Analytics, managed exclusively by my wife, Vivian DeSantis."
The room erupted into absolute madness.
