Billionaire Casts Away His Cruel Heiress Fiancée When She Scalds an Innocent Maid—Only to Discover the Maid’s True Identity Will Shatter High Society Forever!

Within forty-eight hours, the Vance family launched their media offensive. Arthur Vance used his influence to publish front-page headlines across major Boston newspapers: “Billionaire Gabriel Moretti’s Shocking Cruelty: The Tragic Fall of High Society’s Golden Couple.”

Camille appeared on a national morning talk show, wearing a modest black dress, dabbing fake tears from her eyes as she described how Gabriel Moretti had suddenly turned erratic, demanding, and abusive, ultimately kicking her out into the cold over a fabricated domestic dispute.

Inside the Moretti estate, my public relations directors were panicking.

“Mr. Moretti, we need to issue a formal denial immediately,” my head of PR urged during an emergency conference call. “Our corporate stock has dropped three percent this morning. The Vance family is painting you as a monster.”

I sat back in my leather chair, swirling a glass of vintage bourbon. “Issue no statements. Maintain absolute radio silence.”

“Sir? If we say nothing, the public will assume you are guilty!”

“Let the public believe whatever Arthur Vance feeds them,” I replied calmly. “The higher he climbs on his mountain of lies, the further he will fall when I blow the foundation out from beneath him. End of discussion.”

I hung up the phone and looked across the study. Elena was sitting at the conference table, surrounded by stacks of financial ledgers and clinical trial logs from five years ago. Despite her injured arm, her sharp intellect was on full display.

“I found it,” Elena said suddenly, her voice trembling with excitement.

I stood up and walked over to her, leaning over her shoulder. The faint scent of jasmine and vanilla drifted from her hair, causing a sudden, unexpected tightness in my chest.

“Show me,” I murmured.

Elena pointed to a line of pharmaceutical batch numbers. “Look here. Five years ago, Vance Pharmaceuticals claimed that Batch #884 was contaminated by my father’s lab team. But according to these shipping manifests from the Moretti freight docks in Newark, Batch #884 was manufactured in an uncertified facility in Mexico three weeks before my father ever received the trial materials!”

A cold, lethal smile spread across my lips. “Arthur Vance used my own shipping lines to smuggle counterfeit trial drugs into the country, then blamed your father when the patients reacted poorly.”

“It’s all here,” Elena said, her eyes shining with triumph. “The forged customs declarations, the offshore bank transfers to the Mexican lab, and Camille Vance’s signature approving the shell company payouts.”

“Camille was involved directly?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“She was the Chief Financial Officer of the holding company that processed the payments,” Elena confirmed. “She wasn’t just a spoiled socialite living off her father’s wealth, Gabriel. She was the architect who laundered the money that framed my dad.”

Just then, Marco knocked and stepped into the room, holding a gold-embossed envelope.

“Boss, this just arrived by courier from the Boston Symphony Hall,” Marco said, handing me the invitation. “The annual Vance Foundation Autumn Gala is tomorrow night. Arthur Vance sent this directly to you with a handwritten note.”

I flipped the heavy card open. Inside, Arthur Vance had written in arrogant, sprawling cursive: “Come see what real power looks like, Moretti. Boston belongs to the Vances.”