Chapter 7 - A Staged Hit
By Wednesday morning, the air in Beverly Hills tasted like sulfur.
The press was already buzzing with leaks. The *Los Angeles Times* business section ran a front-page blind item: *“Billionaire Tech Founder Battles Grieving Wife’s Erratic Assaults Ahead of Historic 12-Billion-Dollar Asian Buyout.”* The narrative was running exactly as Michael had scripted it. The public was primed to see me as a tragic, violent madwoman who needed to be quietly swept under the rug of high society.
At two o'clock that afternoon, I walked into the Carter Nova boardroom on the thirty-fifth floor.
The room was a glass-enclosed amphitheater overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Twelve men and two women sat around the forty-foot table of polished quartz. At the head of the table sat Michael, looking rested, bronzed, and supreme in a bespoke navy suit. Beside him sat Marcus Vance, the CFO, his forehead glistening with a thin sheen of nervous sweat.
When I entered, the conversation stopped instantly. Several board members looked down at their leather blotters, unable to meet my eyes.
“Olivia,” Michael said, standing up with that practiced, sorrowful smile that made my stomach turn. “We didn't expect you. Given your fragile health, we were prepared to handle this matter in executive committee.”
“I’m sure you were, Michael,” I said smoothly, taking the empty chair at the opposite end of the long table. I did not sit down. I rested my hands on the leather backrest. “But as the beneficial owner of thirty-four percent of the voting equity, my attendance at any Section 4B hearing is mandatory under Delaware corporate law.”
Michael’s smile tightened slightly at the edges. “Of course. We want to be entirely transparent. Gentlemen, members of the board... you have all reviewed the preliminary briefing packet. Over the past several months, my wife’s profound grief over our tragic loss has manifested in increasingly volatile episodes. We have overlooked minor incidents out of compassion. But after the violent physical assault on one of our senior executives at the Meridian Gala, followed by multiple verbal threats yesterday morning, the executive committee must act to protect the stability of this company.”
He gestured to Marcus Vance, who slid a thick document across the quartz table toward the board members.
“Before you is an emergency motion to designate proxy voting authority for Shareholder Olivia Carter to the Office of the Chief Executive Officer,” Michael announced, his voice ringing with absolute authority. “Supported by a formal police report of assault, an emergency protective filing, and a certified medical evaluation of acute psychological impairment.”
One of the older board members, an old colleague of my father named Arthur Pendelton, cleared his throat hesitantly. “Michael... this is an extreme measure. An involuntary proxy transfer requires an independent psychiatric evaluation from a neutral party. Do we have the medical certification?”
Michael didn't miss a beat. He reached into his leather folder and produced a signed, three-page document bearing the embossed seal of Dr. David Sterling’s private clinic.
“I have here the sworn affidavit of Dr. David Sterling,” Michael said, lifting the paper so the room could see the signature at the bottom. “Who has observed Olivia’s mental state closely since the passing of our daughter. Dr. Sterling concludes that Olivia is suffering from severe dissociative grief disorder accompanied by paranoid delusions and violent impulses. He recommends immediate institutional rest and the full suspension of legal fiduciary responsibilities.”
A heavy murmur went through the room. Pendelton looked down, sighing heavily. Several of the younger venture capital appointees nodded in immediate agreement.
“The motion is on the table,” Michael said, leaning back in his leather throne, his eyes locking onto mine with absolute, murderous triumph. “All those in favor of transferring voting proxy under Section 4B, please raise your hands.”
One by one, the hands began to rise.
First the venture capitalists. Then the corporate legal representatives. Marcus Vance raised his shaking hand without looking up. Finally, even Pendelton, cowed by the unanimous momentum, began to lift his arm.
“Nine votes,” Michael declared smoothly, his smile blossoming into a full, radiant sneer. “The motion passes. The proxy is transferred. Security will escort Mrs. Carter from the pre—”
“Before the secretary records the vote,” I interrupted, my voice slicing through the room with the force of a cleaver, “perhaps the board would like to hear Dr. Sterling’s actual voice.”
Michael’s brow furrowed. “Olivia, you are no longer recognized to speak. Thomas, call security.”
I pulled a small, black remote from my pocket and pressed the central button.
The forty-foot high-definition presentation screen behind Michael flickered to life. The glowing blue Carter Nova logo vanished, replaced by crisp, crystal-clear surveillance footage recorded in night-vision high definition.
The room gasped.
On the screen was the private dining room of the Jonathan Club from eight o'clock the previous evening. Michael was clearly visible, sitting across from an elderly, visibly distressed Dr. David Sterling.
The audio filled the boardroom speakers with terrifying clarity:
*“You sign the affidavit, David,”* Michael’s voice boomed from the ceiling speakers, stripped of all public warmth, dripping with venomous cruelty. *“You state that she attacked Chloe, that she’s hallucinating, and that she’s unfit to hold her shares. If you don't, I will have the Hong Kong authorities reopen the wire fraud case against your son by ten tomorrow morning. I’ll make sure the boy spends the next decade in a foreign prison.”*
On the screen, Dr. Sterling’s voice trembled: *“Michael, this is perjury. Olivia didn't push that girl. Olivia was at home. Arthur Bradley told me himself the girl was never pregnant! You’re asking me to destroy an innocent woman who just buried her child!”*
*“I don't give a damn about Olivia!”* Michael’s voice snarled on the recording, his face on screen contorted into a monstrous mask of rage. *“Olivia is an obstacle! She owns thirty-four percent of a twelve-billion-dollar acquisition, and I am not letting a dead three-year-old child stand between me and the Singapore sovereign fund! Sign the damn paper, David, or your son is finished!”*
The boardroom was as quiet as an open grave.
Michael leaped out of his chair, his face turning an apocalyptic shade of purple. “Turn that off! Turn that off right now! That is an illegal, doctored deepfake! Thomas! Pull the power!”
Nobody moved.
Every single board member was staring at the screen in horrified, paralyzed revulsion. Arthur Pendelton’s hand, which had been raised to vote against me, slammed down onto the table with enough force to rattle the water glasses.
“My God, Michael,” Pendelton whispered, his voice trembling with disgust. “What have you done?”
I stood at the end of the table, entirely calm, watching my husband unravel.
“The video you are watching has already been cryptographically verified and submitted to the United States Attorney’s Office for the Central District of California,” I said, my voice carrying effortlessly across the frozen room. “Along with a formal complaint for witness tampering, corporate extortion, and attempted medical fraud.”
Michael gripped the edge of the quartz table, his knuckles turning dead white. His chest heaved. The polished billionaire was gone; in his place stood a cornered, feral animal.
“You think this saves you?” he hissed, his voice dropping into a guttural rasp that horrified the executives around him. “You think a hidden camera trick stops the Singapore merger? I run this company, Olivia! The contracts are signed! The gala is tomorrow night! You have nothing!”
“I don't have nothing, Michael,” I said, slipping the remote back into my pocket. “I have tomorrow night. And so do you.”
May you like
Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked out of the boardroom. Behind me, the sound of twelve board members shouting over one another broke out like the roar of a collapsing dam.
***
