Chapter 8
Julian’s smile faltered, but his posture remained rigid.
"Clara, this is an executive session," he said, keeping his tone patronizingly calm, glancing at the board members as if humoring a frantic child. "You’re emotional. The wedding was exhausting, and—"
"I said cancel the wire," I repeated, walking directly down the center of the table.
Arthur Vance slipped into the room behind us, locking the heavy mahogany doors and standing against them.
"What is the meaning of this, Arthur?" asked Robert Sterling, the senior board chairman. "Julian is executing the trust reallocation we approved this morning."
"The trust reallocation is based on a fraudulent power of attorney," Arthur announced, laying a formal legal affidavit on the table. "Mr. Vance forged Clara Thorne's signature at five o'clock this morning using a revoked digital notary license."
Murmurs rippled across the table. Julian’s eyes flickered with panic, his hands gripping the edge of the podium.
"That's absurd!" Julian scoffed. "Clara authorized this before the wedding. She's upset because... because of a private marital dispute. She's bringing personal drama into a multi-million-dollar corporate transaction!"
"Show them the destination account, Julian," Maya’s voice sliced through the room.
Julian froze. His gaze snapped to Maya, a venomous glare replacing his polished veneer. "You shouldn't be here, Maya. This has nothing to do with you."
"The receiving entity isn't an offshore tax haven for Thorne Logistics," Maya said, stepping forward and opening her laptop. With a few keystrokes, she synced her display to the secondary conference monitor. "It’s a private Swiss account registered under *Vance Global Enterprises*. Julian didn't reallocate the company's reserves. He was five seconds away from stealing forty-two million dollars and boarding a charter flight to Zurich."
The room erupted. Board members stood up, shouting over one another.
"Cancel the transfer!" Sterling roared, leaning over his terminal. "Kill the connection! Now!"
Julian lunged for the master laptop on the podium.
I moved faster.
I grabbed the heavy crystal water pitcher from the center of the table and slammed it down onto his keyboard. Glass shattered, cold water flooded the circuitry, and the screen hissed, sputtered, and went entirely black.
The transfer status on the wall flickered: *TRANSACTION ABORTED.*
Julian stood there, his tailored sleeves soaked, his breathing ragged. The mask was completely gone. In its place was the desperate, vicious face of a cornered predator.
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"You think you won?" Julian hissed, leaning over the soaked table toward me, his voice a low, bitter venom. "You think you're innocent, Clara? You think your precious grandmother was a saint?"
***
