Chapter 3 - The Receipts of BloodThe entire boardroom fell dead silent.
Julian froze mid-breath, his hand remaining suspended in the air holding the forged document. Beatrice dropped her porcelain cup, black coffee spilling across the white tablecloth.
"What is the meaning of this?" Mr. Henderson demanded from the screen.
The heavy double doors of the boardroom didn't break—they were unlocked from the outside with a master key.
Stepping into the room came Clara Vance, flanked by two uniformed federal agents from the IRS Financial Crimes Division, Detective Miller, and two city police officers.
And behind them, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, walked me.
My face was bruised, my lip stitched, my right arm resting in a dark support sling to protect my cracked ribs. But my posture was as straight as a steel rod.
Julian’s face drained of every ounce of color. He backed away from the head of the table, his knees knocking against his executive chair.
"Nora..." Julian stammered, his voice squeaking with sudden panic. "Nora, baby... what are you doing here? You should be resting! You're sick—"
"I’m not sick, Julian," I said, walking slowly to the center of the room, my voice echoing off the glass walls. "I was grieving. But grief is over."
Clara Vance stepped forward, plugging a high-speed encrypted flash drive into the boardroom’s central presentation console.
"Gentlemen of the board," Clara announced, tapping the screen. "I am Clara Vance, chief legal counsel for the estate of Arthur Vance. What you are about to witness is a matter of federal record."
The massive 85-inch digital screen at the front of the room flickered to life.
Instantly, the night-vision video recorded from the bedroom smoke detector at 3:07 a.m. played in glorious, crystal-clear 4K resolution.
The audio roared through the boardroom speakers:
"Get up, you useless woman!" Julian’s recorded voice thundered through the room, followed by the sickening, wet thud of his fist hitting my face and my body crashing against the hardwood floor.
Beatrice’s recorded voice chimed in with terrifying clarity: "Maybe this will finally teach her who's really in charge... This house belongs to our family now."
Several board members gasped aloud, turning their heads away in utter disgust. On the video screen, the lead investor from Vanguard, Mr. Henderson, covered his mouth in shock.
"Turn it off! Turn it off!" Julian shrieked, lunging toward the console.
Detective Miller instantly stepped into his path, shoving Julian hard against the glass wall, pinning his arms behind his back with a heavy hand.
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"Don't touch the evidence, Mr. Sterling," Miller growled into his ear.
"That's not all," I said calmly, taking a step toward Beatrice, who was trembling violently in her chair, her pearls rattling against her neck. "Clara, slide two."
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