Chapter 3 - The Desperate Counterstrike
By seven o'clock the following morning, the business world was in absolute chaos.
The front page of the Wall Street Journal carried a photo of the Martinez ballroom with a shocking headline: THE FIFTY-BILLION-DOLLAR REFUSAL: HENDERSON HEIR CRUSHES MERGER AT THE ALTAR.
A viral video recorded by one of the wedding guests had already gathered over fourteen million views on social media. It showed Beverly Martinez sneering the word "trash" at my father, followed by Fiona’s shrill laughter, and then my silent removal of the wedding ring. The public reaction was swift and merciless. The hashtag #ThatIsntTrash was trending globally, with millions of working-class people rallying behind my father’s quiet dignity.
Inside the executive boardroom of Martinez Enterprises, the air was thick with panic.
George Martinez sat at the head of the polished oak table, his hair unkempt, his eyes bloodshot after an all-night drinking binge. Beside him, Beverly looked pale and terrified, her designer clothes crumpled, while Fiona sat in the corner, staring blankly at her phone as hundreds of angry comments flooded her personal social media accounts.
"We are ruined!" George screamed, slamming his fist onto the table. "The stock dropped forty percent in pre-market trading! The board of directors is calling for my resignation! Every major bank in the city has frozen our operating accounts!"
"Do something, George!" Beverly sobbed, wringing her hands. "Call the mayor! Call the governor! We’ve donated millions to their campaigns!"
"The governor won't take my calls!" George roared, tossing his phone against the wall, shattering the screen. "Do you have any idea who Clara Henderson is?! She funds the governor’s entire political party! Her family owns the bank that holds our primary mortgage!"
He turned his blazing, bloodshot eyes toward Fiona.
"This is your fault!" he shouted at his daughter. "You and your mother! You couldn't keep your mouth shut for one night! You had to insult an old man in front of five hundred people!"
"Me?!" Fiona shrieked, standing up, her hands trembling violently. "You were the one who started the toast, Dad! You were the one who made fun of his suit! Mom just said what you both were thinking!"
"Shut up! Both of you, shut up!" George yelled, holding his head in his hands. He took several deep breaths, trying to regain his composure as his ruthless business mind began calculating his remaining options.
"There's only one way out of this," George muttered, his voice dropping into a desperate, dangerous tone.
"What?" Beverly asked, looking up through tear-stained eyes.
"Blake still loves her," George said, looking at Fiona with a predatory gleam in his eye. "He spent three years bowing to her every wish. A man doesn't just turn off those feelings in one night. He was angry. He was humiliated. But if Fiona goes to him... if she plays the victim... if she convinces him that her mother manipulated her..."
Fiona swallowed hard. "He wouldn't even look at me in the rain, Dad. He looked at me like I was a stranger."
"Because you were surrounded by people!" George snapped, grabbing her by her shoulders. "You go to his old house on Elm Street. You drop to your knees. You cry. You tell him you're pregnant if you have to!"
Fiona gasped. "What?!"
"I don't care what lie you tell him!" George growled, his grip tightening on her arm. "If we don't get Blake Henderson back to that altar within forty-eight hours, the federal auditors will enter this building by Friday. And when they do, I'm going to federal prison for twenty years, and you and your mother will be living on the street!"
Fiona stared at her father’s terrified, maniacal face. She looked at her mother, who was nodding frantically in agreement.
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The family that had spent years pretending to be refined, noble royalty had instantly reduced themselves to desperate scavengers, willing to sell whatever dignity they had left to save their stolen wealth.
"All right," Fiona whispered, wiping her face with the back of her hand, her eyes hardening with a desperate resolve. "I'll go to Elm Street."
