The CEO Hit My Car And Mocked Me, Now My Injury Attorney Owns His Mansion

The Crystal Ballroom was a sea of diamonds and hypocrisy. Giant banners proclaimed the "Sterling Foundation Charity Gala." I adjusted the brace hidden under my coat. Vance had insisted I wear my waitress uniform. "Let them see exactly who they are crushing," he’d said.

We walked past the stunned security detail. Vance moved with such authority that no one dared stop him. The room went silent as we marched toward the stage where Preston Sterling stood, holding a champagne flute.

"Mr. Sterling!" Vance’s voice boomed, projecting without a microphone.

Preston froze. His eyes flicked to me, then to my uniform, and a sneer curled his lip. "Security? Why is this trash in here?"

Vance climbed the stairs, flanked by two men who looked like process server agents but built like linebackers. He slapped a thick envelope against Preston’s chest.

"You are hereby served," Vance announced, loud enough for the press cameras flashing below. "For the defamation lawsuit, gross negligence, and vehicular assault."

Preston laughed nervously, glancing at his donors. "You're making a scene, Marcus. You think a waitress can touch me? My reputation management team will bury you by morning."

Vance smiled, a shark sensing blood in the water. He leaned in close to the microphone. "They can try. But by tomorrow, everyone in this room will know you as the man who drinks vodka while crushing widows."

Preston’s face went pale. "Just watch," Vance whispered.