Lorenzo's POV
More than five hundred people filled the ballroom.
Every member of the Marino Tech board was present, along with the city's wealthiest investors, politicians, and socialites. They had gathered to celebrate Alessandra's thirtieth birthday.
Instead, every pair of eyes rested on me with quiet sympathy.
"I'm worried sick about her," I said softly as Ms. Harrington rested a comforting hand on my arm. "The doctors insisted this was the only option left. Signing those admission papers nearly destroyed me. St. Jude's isn't exactly a place anyone wants to send someone they love."
Ms. Harrington offered me a compassionate smile.
"You're making the difficult decision because someone has to, Lorenzo," she replied. "Alessandra's behavior has become more and more unpredictable over the past several months. The board understands that everything you're doing is for her benefit. Frankly, we're fortunate you're willing to shoulder the responsibility of serving as interim CEO."
I lowered my eyes with practiced humility.
"I'm only doing what the situation demands."
Across the ballroom, Bianca was delivering an equally convincing performance.
She had traded her usual glamorous wardrobe for a simple black evening gown, carefully chosen to make her appear subdued and grieving. Every few moments she dabbed at perfectly dry eyes with a lace handkerchief, playing the role of Alessandra's devastated lifelong friend.
Our eyes met briefly across the crowd.
Everything was proceeding exactly according to plan.
Once the clock reached eight, I would announce that Alessandra Marino had suffered a complete psychological breakdown and had voluntarily admitted herself into psychiatric care.
She had signed the paperwork that morning.
Or at least, that was what everyone believed.
By midnight, control of the voting shares would effectively belong to me.
By Monday morning, Marino Tech would be under my command.
I glanced down at my Rolex.
7:55 p.m.
Five more minutes.
I climbed onto the stage.
The conversations throughout the ballroom gradually faded until complete silence settled over the room.
I adjusted the microphone, deliberately allowing the silence to linger before speaking.
"I appreciate every one of you for being here tonight."
I let my voice crack ever so slightly.
"This evening was meant to celebrate Alessandra's birthday."
I paused, lowering my head.
"My wife... the most brilliant woman I've ever known... wanted nothing more than to spend tonight with all of you."
Another pause.
"But many of you are already aware that she's been struggling with serious mental health issues."
A wave of sympathetic murmurs swept across the audience.
I continued before anyone else could speak.
"The past week has been unimaginably difficult for our family."
I sighed heavily.
"The important thing is that Alessandra is somewhere safe now. She's receiving professional treatment from people who can help her recover."
I looked around the room.
"Although she couldn't be with us tonight, she asked that I share something on her behalf."
A faint smile appeared.
"It's a message dedicated to the company she created... and to the future we all hope to build together."
This was the moment everything would change.
I'd paid a professional editor ten thousand dollars to create the perfect video.
Footage from the police station.
The scenes inside the hospital.
The confrontation where she slapped Bianca.
Every clip had been stripped of context.
Every emotional reaction had been exaggerated through careful editing until Alessandra appeared completely unstable.
When the shareholders saw it, they would have no choice but to conclude she was mentally unfit to remain CEO.
I nodded toward the audiovisual booth.
The technician reached for the controls.
Before the video could begin, the grand double doors at the rear of the ballroom suddenly swung wide open.
Every head turned.
A courier dressed in a bright red delivery uniform stepped inside, looking completely out of place among the sea of tuxedos and designer gowns.
Balanced in his hands was a small silver parcel.
He raised it slightly and called out in a clear voice that echoed across the silent ballroom.
"Special delivery for the birthday celebrant!"
A knot formed in my stomach.
I frowned.
"Security?" I called, my eyes never leaving the unexpected visitor.
"It’s marked urgent," the courier said, walking straight to the stage. He didn't hand it to me. He handed it to the AV technician who had stepped out of the booth. "Instructions say to play immediately. From Mrs. Marino."
The crowd whispered. I felt a flicker of annoyance. Alessandra was supposed to be in a padded room by now. Had she sent a goodbye video before checking in?
Even better, I thought. Let her look crazy in her own words.
"Play it," I ordered the technician. "Let’s hear what my wife has to say."
I stepped back, clasping my hands in front of me, ready to look mournful.
The massive projection screen behind me flickered to life.
But there was no video. No sound.
A high-resolution document appeared on the screen. It was magnified, crisp and clear.
TRANSFER OF DEED
Grantor: Lorenzo Marino
Grantee: Alessandra Marino
Property: 1400 Skyline Drive
The room went deadly silent.
I squinted at the screen. That was my signature at the bottom. The signature I had scrawled this morning on what I thought were the hospital admission forms.
"What is this?" Bianca’s voice shrilled from the front row.
The slide changed.
REVOCATION OF POWER OF ATTORNEY
I, Alessandra Marino, hereby revoke all powers previously granted to Lorenzo Marino, effective immediately.
"Turn it off," I hissed at the technician. "Cut the feed!"
"I can't!" the kid stammered, frantically typing. "It’s locked out! It’s running a script!"
The slide changed again. A collective gasp went through the room.
AFFIDAVIT OF ADMISSION
I, Lorenzo Marino, hereby admit to the following:
Embezzlement of company funds totaling $4.2 million.
Falsification of medical records regarding Alessandra Marino.
Adultery with Bianca Smith.
My signature was right there. Bold. Unmistakable.
"Oh my god," Ms. Harrington whispered.
I spun around to the screen. It was the liability waiver. The one I had signed without reading because I was too busy watching the stock ticker. She had hidden the text. She had tricked me.
"This is a lie!" I shouted, my voice booming over the speakers. "This is faked! She’s sick! She’s hallucinating!"
The screen changed one last time. It wasn't a document. It was a bank transfer receipt.
To: Marino Tech Corporate Accounts
From: Lorenzo Marino Personal Holdings
Amount: $4,200,000.00 (Restitution)
"She emptied my accounts," I whispered, the blood draining from my face. "She took it all."
"Lorenzo?" Bianca was at the edge of the stage, her face pale. "What did you sign? You said you read them!"
"I..." I couldn't breathe.
The double doors at the back of the room banged open again. This time, it wasn't a courier.
Four men in cheap, ill-fitting suits marched in. They didn't look like guests. They looked like the law.
"Lorenzo Marino?" the lead man barked.
I stepped back, nearly tripping over a monitor wedge. "Who are you?"
The man walked right up to the stage. He didn't care about the gala. He didn't care about the cameras flashing blindingly in my face. He slapped a thick envelope against my chest.
"You’ve been served," he said loud enough for the back row to hear.
"Served?" I choked out.
"Divorce papers," he listed, ticking them off on his fingers. "Restraining order. And a notice of eviction. You have twelve hours to vacate the premises at Skyline Drive."
He turned to the front row. "Bianca Smith?"
Bianca froze. "No."
He tossed a packet into her lap. "You too. Eviction notice. The apartment is in Mrs. Marino’s name. You’re out."
"You can't do this!" Bianca shrieked, scrambling to her feet. "I live there!"
"Not anymore," the server said.
The room erupted. Five hundred people were talking at once. Phones were out. They were recording everything. Ms. Harrington was staring at me with pure disgust. The board members were already huddling, turning their backs to me.
I stood alone on the stage, the documents still cycling on the screen behind me like a nightmare on a loop.
How?
"Alessandra," I whispered. “You fucking bitch!”
