Chapter 5 - The Queen's Entrance
The press corps erupted into sheer bedlam.
"The Crawfords!" a journalist screamed into his microphone. "The Crawford family is actually here in person!"
"They haven't made a public appearance in Los Angeles in over five years!"
Spencer, Cassandra, and Patricia stood frozen on the steps, completely forgotten by the press as every camera turned toward the lead Rolls-Royce.
The rear door of the central Phantom was opened by Thomas himself, holding a black umbrella over the doorway.
A slender, elegant leg dressed in a sheer silk stocking stepped out, followed by the sweep of a breathtaking midnight-obsidian gown adorned with millions of micro-diamonds that caught the spotlights like a galaxy of stars. Around her neck sat a legendary seventy-carat sapphire necklace—the Star of the Atlantic—an heirloom that had belonged exclusively to the matriarch of the Crawford family for three generations.
She stepped onto the red carpet.
Her dark hair was styled in an effortless, regal updo. Her red lips were set in a sharp, cold line. Her head was held high, projecting an air of absolute authority that commanded every eye in the building.
Spencer stared at her, his eyes wide with confusion. His brain tried to make sense of the face, the posture, the royal dignity—and failed completely.
"Gwen?" Spencer croaked, his voice barely a squeak.
Patricia’s mouth fell open so wide her pearl necklace almost slipped off her chest. "That... that’s impossible..."
Cassandra clutched Spencer’s arm so hard her manicured nails bit into his suit jacket. "Spencer... why is your useless ex-wife stepping out of a Crawford motorcade?"
I did not look at them.
I walked up the red carpet with slow, measured steps, my heels clicking rhythmically against the floor. Thomas walked two steps behind me, flanked by four high-level Crawford executives carrying official legal ledgers.
As I reached the top of the stairs, Lord Harrington immediately bowed his head at a ninety-degree angle, removing his white gloves.
"Welcome, Director Crawford," Lord Harrington said respectfully, his voice carrying over the silent press gallery. "The Pinnacle Gala awaits your command."
"Thank you, Lord Harrington," I replied, my voice cool, velvety, and echoing with unyielding authority. "Is everything prepared inside?"
"The principal table is set, ma'am. The board of trustees is assembled."
I finally turned my head, my cold, piercing eyes sweeping over Spencer, Cassandra, and Patricia as if they were nothing more than microscopic specks of dust stuck to my shoe.
Spencer took a desperate step forward, his hands trembling violently.
"Gwen... what is this joke?" Spencer stammered, his face pale as a sheet. "Why are you dressed like that? Where did you get that necklace? Did you... did you steal that from my storage chest?"
Patricia snapped out of her shock, her face twisting into a mask of rage. "You deceitful little leech! How dare you show up here in a fake dress trying to humiliate my son! Security! Arrest this woman for fraud!"
Captain Miller didn't move. In fact, two security guards immediately stepped forward, placing their heavy hands on Spencer’s and Patricia’s shoulders, pinning them to the railings.
"Unconscious fools," Thomas said, stepping forward, his cold voice cutting through Patricia’s shrieks. "You are speaking to Gwendolyn Marcus Crawford—sole heiress to the Crawford Global Energy Syndicate, principal owner of the Manhattan & Pacific Trust, and the woman whose family money funded your pathetic firm for six years out of pity."
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The entire red carpet fell into a dead, suffocating silence.
The reporters froze. The cameras kept flashing, capturing Spencer’s face as every single atom of his arrogance shattered into absolute, irrecoverable ruins.
