Chapter 9 - The Private Boardroom Upstairs
The mahogany walls of the upstairs boardroom absorbed the frantic echoes of the gala downstairs, creating a heavy, airless quiet. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind the departing federal marshal, leaving just the three of us inside the wood-paneled room. Preston stood near the far window, his white tuxedo jacket looking slightly rumpled now, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he struggled to regain his composure. He tried to laugh, but the sound was thin, brittle, and entirely devoid of charm.
"You're making a catastrophic mistake," Preston said, turning around to face me directly, his voice dropping into a smooth, conspiratorial tone. "You think a low-level catering server and some disgruntled auditor can bring down a foundation that funds half the politicians in this state? Let's be reasonable, Lena. Name your price. Ten thousand? Fifty thousand? We can settle this quietly tonight before the press gets hold of the real financial records."
I stood by the long conference table, keeping my distance from him. The memory of Isabella clutching her wooden music box while glass rained down around her flashed vividly in my mind. The money he was offering wasn't an apology; it was a leash.
"You didn't just threaten me, Preston," I said, my voice steady and clear in the quiet room. "You threw a glass bottle at a seven-year-old child because you were afraid my neighborhood association would expose how you acquired those residential blocks."
"Nobody cares about a few old houses," Preston snapped, his mask of polite restraint finally slipping entirely. His face flushed a dark, mottled crimson. "People like you exist to serve people like me. You take the scraps we give you, and you stay quiet. If you think you're walking out of here with anything more than a settlement you'll regret, you're out of your mind."
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Before I could answer, the heavy oak door swung open with a sharp click. Adrian stepped into the room, holding a thick manila folder filled with printed bank statements, witness affidavits, and the forensic metadata copy of the catering hall security footage. He tossed the folder onto the polished mahogany table right in front of Preston, the heavy thud echoing like a gavel.
"The settlement offer is off the table, Hale," Adrian said coldly, sliding his hands into his charcoal suit pockets. "The district attorney's office just signed the formal indictment. Your lawyers are downstairs waiting to tell you that you're entirely on your own."
