Chapter 9 - The Reckoning of the Slaps
“This is an internal corporate meeting!” Pendelton, Richard’s lawyer, shouted, jumping to his feet. “Detectives, Marshals, remove yourselves immediately! Mrs. Foster is clearly having an episode—”
“Sit down, Pendelton,” Evelyn Cruz barked. Her voice held the crack of a whip. She didn't drop a paper file; she tapped a button on her tablet, syncing it directly with the eighty-inch presentation screen mounted on the wall.
The screen flickered to life.
It wasn't financial charts.
It was the high-definition security footage from the penthouse terrace, timestamped 11:42 PM last night.
The video didn't have sound, but it didn't need it.
The board watched in horrified silence as Richard grabbed me by the throat, shoved me against the terrace glass, and struck me across the face.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
The camera clearly captured his contorted, raging expression. It captured him throwing me into the wrought-iron chair, kneeling down, and binding my wrists and ankles with nylon cords before turning off the terrace lights and sliding the door shut, leaving me in the pouring rain.
A heavy, suffocating groan rippled through the older board members. Abernathy looked away, his face pale with disgust.
“That footage was retrieved this morning via federal subpoena from the cloud servers Richard forgot were registered under Sterling Telecom,” Evelyn said calmly. “Furthermore, we have presented Detective Miller with a certified forensic medical report documenting two fractured ribs, severe facial trauma, and bilateral wrist ligature lacerations.”
Richard sprang out of his chair, knocking it backward onto the carpet. “That footage is manipulated! It’s a deepfake! She’s trying to destroy me because I demanded an audit of her mother’s estate!”
“There’s no need to audit my mother’s estate, Richard,” I said softly.
I reached into Evelyn’s leather satchel and pulled out a stack of blue folders, dropping them directly in front of the board members.
“Because my mother audited you.”
Richard’s eyes darted wildly across the covers of the folders: *FOSTER OFFSHORE WIRE TRANSFERS / TAX EVASION 2022-2024*.
“You didn't just abuse me, Richard,” I continued, my voice echoing through the frozen room. “You embezzled forty-two million dollars from the Foster Capital retirement escrow. You funneled it through shell accounts in Panama, co-signed by Miss Danvers right beside you, to finance your personal margin debts on tech shorts.”
Chloe let out a strangled shriek. “I didn't know! He told me it was clean advisory capital!”
“Shut up, Chloe!” Richard screamed, his veneer completely shattering. His eyes were bloodshot, sweat beading heavily along his hairline. “You stupid bitch, shut your mouth!”
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“Detective Miller,” I said without looking at Richard. “I believe you have a warrant.”
Detective Miller stepped forward, unclipping a pair of steel handcuffs from his utility belt. “Richard Foster, you are under arrest for felony assault in the second degree, attempted murder, and unlawful imprisonment. Put your hands behind your back.”
