Third person's pov
The silence in Abigail Bardot's office was stifling.
Just hours ago, Bardot Industries towered as a multi-billion-dollar empire. But now, in the cold and sharp echo of breaking glass and crashing markets, it was nothing more than a crumbling shadow of its former self.
Abigail stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of her penthouse office, staring down at the city below, her fingers trembling around the crystal wine glass. Her reflection on the glass looked pale, disheveled — broken.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
"Ma'am… the stock price… it's hit rock bottom," her assistant, Elora, said breathlessly, tablet in hand. "All the major investors have pulled out. We're getting flooded with lawsuits."
Abigail didn't turn. Her voice was thin. "And the factory?"
Elora hesitated. "The investigation confirms it. The explosion in Sector 7… dozens dead, hundreds injured. Media's blaming Bardot Industries for negligence."
A choked gasp escaped Abigail's lips.
"Impossible…" she whispered. "That factory passed all inspections. We… we had safety protocols…"
Elora swallowed, eyes downcast. "There are leaked documents. Internal emails. The public believes you ignored multiple warnings to avoid shutting it down during upgrades."
"I never—" Abigail began to protest, but the words died in her throat. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she remembered the rushed decisions. Joshua saying, "It'll cost too much to delay operations. Just sign off on the risk report."
Her fingers went cold.
Joshua…
A notification popped up on Elora's tablet. The woman read it, then looked up with wide eyes. "Ma'am… the government has frozen all Bardot accounts. Assets are being seized for criminal investigation."
"What…?" Abigail turned now, her face ghost white. "That's not possible… they can't just—!"
"Roselle Vasilyev just made a statement," Elora continued, unable to hide the fear in her voice. "She said Bardot Industries' collapse is a 'warning for those who build empires on false honor and greed.'"
Abigail's knees gave way and she collapsed into her leather chair.
"No…" she breathed. "Roselle… that bitch… this was her…"
Suddenly, her phone rang. She snatched it off the desk with shaking hands.
"Joshua?" she demanded. "You said you would handle this! Where are you?!"
But the voice on the other end wasn't Joshua.
"This is Officer Tyran from the Department of Economic Crimes," the cold voice said. "We have traced several shell company transactions to your name. You are officially under investigation, Ms. Bardot. Please remain at your location."
The call ended.
Her face twisted in disbelief, confusion, and rage. "Joshua…?"
The office door opened again.
This time, it wasn't Elora.
It was Joanna Leinin.
The younger woman stood tall, dressed in a clean suit and sharp heels, a smirk curling on her lips.
"You…" Abigail stood up shakily. "You're behind this, aren't you? You forged the contracts… you made me sign…"
"Oh no," Joanna said sweetly. "You signed every single one willingly. I just presented the papers. And you were so desperate to please Joshua, you didn't even read them."
"You ruined me!"
"No," Joanna corrected calmly. "You ruined yourself. All I did was help you dig faster."
Outside the building, a crowd was forming. Protesters, reporters, and angry citizens all screamed in chaos as news headlines flashed:
"BARDOT INDUSTRIES COLLAPSES AFTER FACTORY TRAGEDY — CEO UNDER INVESTIGATION"
"CORRUPTION, NEGLIGENCE, FRAUD — THE END OF A BILLION-DOLLAR EMPIRE?"
Joanna turned to leave, but paused at the door.
"Oh, and Abigail?" she said with a glance over her shoulder. "Joshua skipped town. Left this morning. Took a private jet. Guess even rats know when a ship is sinking."
Abigail screamed.
The glass of her wine shattered against the wall.
But the storm outside — the screams, the sirens, the flashing lights — only got louder.
And as she fell back into her chair, burying her face in trembling hands, the once-proud Queen of Bardot Empire realized:
This was no accident.
This was judgment.
This was the end.
And she had no one to blame but herself.
________________________________________
The courtroom buzzed with tension, the thick air carrying the weight of justice long overdue. Cameras flashed like gunfire. Whispers slithered through rows of journalists and bystanders. At the center of it all stood Abigail Bardot, once hailed as the queen of Bardot Industries—now shackled, bruised, and broken.
Her designer clothes hung loosely on her frail frame. The once radiant woman, known for her poise and cruelty, looked nothing more than a hollowed-out shell. Gone was the smirk. Gone was the pride. Her eyes, dark and sunken, searched for salvation in the eyes of people who now only looked at her with contempt or pity.
The judge banged the gavel once more.
"Abigail Bardot," the judge's voice echoed with finality, "You are hereby found guilty on charges of high treason, financial fraud of the highest magnitude, human trafficking, and the unlawful execution of corporate enemies through the Black Circle Syndicate."
Abigail flinched.
"The court sentences you to public execution. The date is fixed for the 30th of this month. May the gods have mercy on your soul."
Gasps rippled across the crowd. Reporters jotted every word down with trembling hands. Abigail simply stood still, her lips slightly parted. Not a word of protest. Not a scream.
As she was dragged away by guards, the silence that followed her steps was not of respect—but of satisfaction. Retribution had finally arrived.
________________________________________
Three Days Later – Execution Grounds
The platform was constructed in the heart of Capital City's main plaza. The crowd stretched for miles. Banners of justice fluttered in the air. Screens displayed the final hour of the woman who once dared to rule the world with venom and greed.
Abigail Bardot was pushed onto the execution stage. Chains clinked with each slow step she took.
She was pale, but not from fear—from emptiness. She had already died long ago, the day she lost everything. The day Samuel Gebb faked his death… and disappeared forever.
Or so she thought.
A loud whisper broke out in the crowd.
A man in a dark trench coat walked past the guards. Unbothered. Unafraid.
Abigail blinked. Her knees weakened.
"…No," she murmured. "It—It can't be."
The man pulled down his hood.
"Hello, Abigail."
Samuel Gebb's voice rang like a blade across her throat.
She stumbled back, nearly falling. Her face contorted in disbelief, horror, and shame.
"You… you're dead…" she whispered. "You died… they said… your body—"
Samuel laughed. Cold. Cruel. Deliciously mocking.
"Oh, sweetheart. You really believed that, didn't you?"
He stepped closer. The executioner, startled, stepped aside.
"Did you really think the Heavenly Demon would die so easily? That I'd die before watching you rot in the gutter you created?"
Abigail trembled. "Why… why are you here?"
"To watch," Samuel said. "To see how far you've fallen. To enjoy the irony. The woman who once stood above everyone, now about to fall harder than anyone ever has."
Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Samuel, I—"
"Don't," he cut her off sharply. "Don't you dare say you're sorry. Not after what you did."
He stared deep into her, eyes glowing faintly with power.
"You paraded with that fool Joshua the day after my funeral. You forged documents. Stole what I built. You made alliances with monsters and threw innocent lives under the bus."
"I didn't know the truth!" she sobbed.
"You never wanted to," Samuel snapped. "You loved power, Abigail. Not me. You just loved the way I made you feel—invincible. Until I was gone, and you were just another coward who replaced love with greed."
Her knees buckled.
"Please…" she whispered. "Just… stay."
"For what?" Samuel raised an eyebrow. "To stop your death? No, Abigail. I came here to witness justice. Your justice. And perhaps—give you one last gift."
She looked up.
He leaned in close, so close only she could hear.
"You know what hurts the most?" he whispered. "You never truly knew me. But now, the world will remember me—not as your husband. But as the man who lived, while you died alone."
Samuel turned away without waiting for her reply.
The crowd quieted.
The executioner stepped forward.
Abigail looked once more toward the figure walking away. Her lips trembled.
"…Samuel…"
But he never turned back.
And when the blade fell, the silence afterward was not of mourning—it was of closure.