Chapter 7 - A Trap Set in Platinum
I didn't flinch. I stood straight, pressing the blue leather binder against my side, ignoring the sharp, tearing heat across my abdomen.
Travis leaned against the doorframe, a cruel, mocking sneer twisting his face. "Did you really think you could outsmart me, Eliza? You spent the last six months scrubbing my office toilets. You took twelve dollars for the bus because I told you that was all you were worth. And now you come back to steal company property?"
"This isn't company property, Travis," I said, my voice steady, cold, and clear. "This is my father's trust. The one you tried to forge your way into."
He laughed, taking a slow sip of his scotch. "Nobody cares about your father. The old bastard is dead. And you are a lunatic who abandoned her five-day-old child to commit burglary in the middle of the night."
He raised his phone. "Victor has already alerted building security. In three minutes, there will be six armed guards in this room. By sunrise, you'll be booked in Cook County Jail without bail. And Evelyn will be tucking Maya into bed."
He stepped forward, reaching out with an aggressive sneer to snatch the binder from my arms.
"Give it to me, you worthless bitch."
I didn't pull back. I simply looked past his shoulder.
"Take another step, Mr. Fenwick, and you won't live to see your sunrise."
Travis froze.
From the shadows of the executive hallway, two men in tailored black suits stepped into the light. Behind them walked Marcus Vance, holding a signed judicial writ stamped with the golden seal of the United States District Court.
Travis turned pale, his jaw dropping as if he had seen a ghost. "V-Vance? You're... you were disbarred. You were under indictment!"
"I was under federal protection, Travis," Marcus said calmly, stepping into the office. "Assisting the Department of Justice in building a RICO case against you and your offshore shell corporations. Including the little three point four million dollar transfer you attempted to pin on your wife tonight."
Victor appeared in the doorway, his face the color of damp chalk. "Travis... the accounts. They're frozen. All of them. The offshore servers in the Caymans just shut down."
Travis dropped his scotch glass. It shattered against the hardwood floor, dark amber liquor splashing across his expensive Italian shoes.
"This is my company!" Travis bellowed, his voice cracking with wild, desperate fury. "I built Northgate! You can't remove me! My mother and I hold forty-nine percent! We hold the voting majority on the board!"
"You did," I said, stepping forward, letting the harsh fluorescent lights catch my face. "Until eight minutes ago, when I signed the trust reactivation protocol using the original wet-ink agreement."
I opened the blue binder, displaying the final page, bearing my fresh, bold signature right beside my father's seal.
May you like
"You don't own Northgate, Travis," I whispered, leaning in until he could see the cold, unyielding fire in my eyes. "You're fired. Get out of my father's chair."
***
