Chapter 8 - The Boardroom Ambush
The boardroom of Foster Capital was designed to intimidate. Paneled in dark smoked walnut, with a thirty-foot glass table overlooking Central Park, it was where multi-million-dollar transactions were executed with the stroke of a Montblanc pen.
The eight board members sat in silence, murmuring among themselves as Richard walked in, accompanied by Chloe and his lead defense attorney, Arthur Pendelton.
Richard had composed himself. His suit was pristine, his hair combed back, his posture radiating unyielding authority.
“Gentlemen,” Richard said, taking his seat at the head of the table. “Thank you for gathering on such short notice. As you may have seen from the pre-market volatility, our firm is facing an unprecedented, coordinated smear campaign orchestrated by a rogue element within the Sterling family estate.”
Old man Abernathy, who had been a loyal ally of Richard’s father, frowned. “Richard, Continental Trust halted our credit line. The whispers on Wall Street are that Foster Capital is insolvent.”
“We are entirely solvent,” Richard said smoothly. “However, due to my wife’s tragic and worsening psychological decline following the loss of her mother, several unauthorized legal filings were submitted in her name this morning. Her grief has manifested in profound delusions. Arthur, please distribute the incapacity petitions.”
Pendelton began sliding folders down the table.
“We are asking the board to activate Section 14B of the corporate bylaws,” Richard continued, his voice heavy with feigned sorrow. “To temporarily transfer all voting rights held by the Sterling Trust to my office until Jasmine has completed residential psychiatric treatment.”
“She won't be needing residential treatment, Richard.”
The voice was cool, clear, and cut through the room like a diamond blade.
The frosted glass double doors swung open.
Every head in the room snapped around.
I walked in.
I wore an ivory Alexander McQueen pantsuit with an open neckline. I wore no makeup. No concealer. No sunglasses.
The entire left side of my face was swollen and stained deep plum and mottled yellow. The eight distinct marks from his fingers were vividly traceable across my jawline. My left eye was bloodshot and narrowed from the swelling. Thick white bandages wrapped both my wrists, visible below the tailored cuffs of my jacket.
Behind me walked Evelyn Cruz, flanked by two armed United States Marshals and Detective Miller of the NYPD Major Crimes Division.
The boardroom went dead silent. You could hear the faint hum of the air conditioning.
Abernathy gasped, his coffee cup clattering against its saucer. Chloe Danvers covered her mouth with both hands, shrinking back into her leather chair.
Richard stared at me, his face draining of every drop of blood until he looked like a corpse in a three-thousand-dollar suit.
“Jasmine...” Richard stammered, gripping the edge of the table. “What... what are you doing here? You belong in bed—”
“I belong at the head of this table,” I said, walking slowly, deliberately toward him. Every step sent a jolt of fire through my cracked ribs, but I didn't break stride. I didn't waver.
May you like
I stopped right beside his chair, looking down at him with an eye that held no tears, no fear, and no mercy.
“And you belong in a cage.”
