Chapter 4 - The Boardroom Execution
Miles stumbled backward.
His heel caught the edge of a chair leg.
He crashed down hard onto the floor, knocking over a crystal ice bucket.
Ice cubes scattered across the floor, sliding between the shiny dress shoes of
his investors.
"You..." Miles gasped, his eyes wild with terror.
"You knew?"
Declan looked down at him with utter disgust.
"You’ve been skimming from the hospital contracts for eighteen months,
Corrigan."
"Ten percent off every shipment of pediatric dialysis machines."
"Fifteen percent off every digital server upgrade."
"You built your entire company on defective components."
"And when my wife’s foundation began auditing the supply chain last month, you
realized the walls were closing in."
I stepped forward, dropping Declan's coat slightly so my face was clearly
visible to everyone in the room.
The shock had worn off.
The fire was back in my blood.
"You approached Bianca three months ago, didn't you, Miles?" I said.
My voice didn't waver.
It carried across the frozen tables.
"Her father’s logistics firm was going under."
"Your tech firm was bleeding cash."
"You needed a scapegoat to cover the missing forty million before the annual
state inspection next week."
"So you decided to frame the Lantern Trust."
"You thought if you humiliated me in public first—if you painted me as an
incompetent, low-class volunteer—the public would believe the theft charges
without asking questions."
Bianca backed away from Miles as if he were on fire.
"I didn't know about this!" Bianca shrieked, her voice reaching a shrill,
hysterical pitch.
"Miles told me she was just a nobody!"
"He told me she was sleeping with one of the venue managers!"
"He told me to put her in her place!"
"Shut up, Bianca!" Miles screamed from the floor, clawing at the tablecloth to
haul himself back to his feet.
"You wanted this just as much as I did!"
"You wanted her out of the way so your father could take over the distribution
contracts!"
"Both of you shut up," Detective Harrison ordered.
Harrison's face was dark with fury.
He turned toward his two officers.
"Cuff him."
"Wait! No!" Miles yelled as the two officers grabbed his arms, wrenching them
behind his back.
Click.
Click.
The sound of steel ratcheting around Miles’s wrists was sweet, sharp music.
"I have a right to an attorney!" Miles shouted, his voice cracking.
"I want Robert Sterling on the phone right now!"
"Mr. Sterling won't be taking your call," Declan said calmly.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped the screen once.
He held the phone up toward the ballroom.
"Marcus," Declan spoke into the speakerphone.
"Put him on."
A tired, defeated voice came through the phone’s speaker, amplified across the
quiet hall.
"Declan... it's over," the voice said.
Every lawyer and politician at the front tables gasped.
It was Robert Sterling.
The Assistant District Attorney.
"I submitted my resignation ten minutes ago," Sterling whispered over the line.
"The state attorney general’s office has already frozen my accounts."
"They have the wire transfers from Corrigan’s offshore shell company."
"I'm sorry, Declan. I'm so sorry."
Declan hung up without saying a word.
The phone went dark in his palm.
Miles stopped fighting the officers.
His head slumped forward against his chest.
The fight had been drained completely out of him.
He was dragged backward through the center aisle, his expensive Italian leather
shoes dragging along the marble floor.
Past the hundreds of guests who had cheered for him ten minutes ago.
Not a single person looked him in the eye.
Every guest turned their backs, pretending they had never shaken his hand.
That left Bianca.
She was standing completely alone in the center of the vast ballroom.
Her silver dress looked ridiculous now.
Her diamonds looked cheap.
Her makeup was smeared with cold sweat.
She looked around frantically for an ally.
She looked at the country club crowd.
She looked at the board members of her father's company.
Every single one of them looked away.
Some checked their watches.
Some stared into their champagne glasses.
"Daddy..." Bianca whimpered, pulling out her rhinestone-covered phone with
shaking fingers.
She dialed a number.
She pressed the phone to her ear.
"Daddy, pick up... pick up..."
Across the room, Declan’s assistant, Marcus, looked up from his tablet.
"Mr. Vance," Marcus announced clearly.
"The Vale Logistics credit facility has been liquidated."
"Their warehouse in Newark was seized by federal marshals fifteen minutes ago."
"Arthur Vale has just been taken into custody at his penthouse."
Bianca's phone slipped from her fingers.
It hit the marble floor with a sharp, sickening crack.
The glass screen shattered into a spiderweb of glowing fractures.
She stared down at the broken screen.
Then she looked up at me.
Her lower lip trembled violently.
The cruel, untouchable socialite was gone.
In her place was a terrified, ruined child.
"Iris..." she choked out.
She took a stumbling step toward me.
"Iris, please..."
"It was an accident."
"I was stressed... I didn't mean to tear your blouse..."
"I'll pay for it!"
"I'll buy you a thousand blouses!"
"I'll buy out the entire boutique!"
"Please tell your husband to stop!"
"If my father loses the company, we have nothing!"
"We'll lose the house!"
"We'll be on the street!"
I looked at her.
I felt Declan's warm coat wrapped securely around my shoulders.
I remembered the sound of my buttons hitting the floor.
Plink.
Plink.
Plink.
I remembered the cruel mockery in her eyes when she told me I could work here
for ten years and never afford her bag.
I remembered the dozens of cameras she had played to, hungry to ruin an innocent
woman for sport.
"You told me earlier that I needed to learn my place," I said.
My voice was quiet, but it reached every corner of the room.
"Do you remember that, Bianca?"
Bianca swallowed hard, tears finally spilling down her powdered cheeks, cutting
black tracks through her mascara.
"I was wrong," she sobbed.
"I was stupid! Please!"
"You're right about one thing," I continued, taking a slow step toward her.
"Everyone has a place."
"My place is building clinics for people who have nothing."
"Your place was tearing people down to make yourself feel tall."
"Now you're going to find out what it feels like to have nothing."
Declan walked up beside me.
He didn't look at Bianca.
He looked at the general manager of the Beacon Grand, who was standing frozen
against the wall.
"Manager," Declan barked.
"Y-yes, Mr. Vance!" the man stammered, running forward.
"Have Miss Vale escorted off the premises immediately."
"She is trespassing."
"If she ever sets foot in a property owned by Vance Holdings again, have her
arrested."
"Right away, sir!" the manager shouted.
Two burly security guards in dark suits moved in on Bianca.
They grabbed her by the upper arms.
"Don't touch me!" she screamed, thrashing against their grip.
"Let go of me!"
"Iris, you bitch! You can't do this to me!"
"I'm a Vale! I'm Bianca Vale!"
Her screams echoed down the marble hallway as she was dragged toward the service
doors.
The heavy doors slammed shut behind her.
Bang.
The ballroom was left in stunned, ringing silence once more.
Six hundred of the city’s most powerful people stood holding their breath.
They were staring at Declan.
And they were staring at me.
Then Declan turned his cold, calculating gaze across the tables.
"The gala is over," Declan said.
"Everyone leave."
No one argued.
No one hesitated.
Men in six-thousand-dollar tuxedos and women in haute couture gowns scrambled
for the exits like rats fleeing a sinking ship.
Within four minutes, the grand ballroom of the Beacon Grand was empty.
Only the overturned champagne glasses, the spilled ice, and the scattered white
buttons remained on the floor.
Declan turned to me.
The coldness in his face melted completely away.
He reached out and gently pulled the coat tighter around my neck.
"Are you hurt, Iris?" he asked, his voice filled with tender, aching concern.
"No," I whispered.
"I'm just tired, Declan."
"Let's go home," he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to my forehead.
He wrapped his arm around my waist and began to lead me toward the private
elevators that led to the roof helipad.
We stepped into the mirrored elevator.
The doors began to slide shut.
Suddenly, an arm shot through the gap, blocking the sensors.
The doors bounced open with a chime.
Standing there was Delia Ford—the hotel supervisor who had tried to cover me
with a tablecloth when Bianca had attacked me.
Her face was pale.
Her hands were shaking.
She wasn't holding a tablecloth this time.
She was holding a manila folder with the red stamp: CLASSIFIED MEDICAL AUDIT.
"Mrs. Vance..." Delia breathed, her voice trembling with sheer terror.
"You need to see this."
"Miles Corrigan didn't act alone."
"The hit on your foundation... it wasn't coming from outside."
Delia held out the folder toward Declan and me.
May you like
"The person who authorized the wire transfer forty minutes ago... was your
sister."
