Chapter 3 - The Scramble for the CrownThe heavy click of the steel handcuffs locking around James’s wrists echoed like a gunshot through the forty-second-floor boardroom.
Arthur Vance jumped to his feet, frantically waving his legal pad. "This is an egregious overreach! We demand to speak with the district attorney's office immediately! My client is a pillar of the Chicago business community—"
"Your client is a white-collar criminal who utilized stolen data from Hanover Pierce to manipulate three consecutive multi-million-dollar acquisitions," the federal agent interrupted smoothly, turning to me with a respectful nod. "Ms. Scott—or rather, Madam Chairwoman—the federal prosecutor’s office thanks you and your forensic team for providing such an airtight paper trail. The warrants for Rochelle Cherry are being executed simultaneously across her River North apartment and her office cubicle."
James didn't scream or thrash. As the agents guided him toward the private elevator, he stopped, turning his head just enough to look back at me. His eyes weren't angry anymore; they were dead, hollow, and filled with a cold, terrifying disbelief.
"You planned this," he whispered, his voice shaking. "From the moment you found out about Rochelle... you didn't cry. You didn't yell. You just built a trap."
"You taught me how to build, James," I replied softly, sitting back in my chair. "You always said architecture was about understanding pressure points, load-bearing walls, and hidden structural weaknesses. You just forgot to check your own foundation."
The elevator doors closed, sealing him away.
Arthur Vance grabbed his briefcase, muttered something about conflicts of interest, and hurried out of the room behind them, leaving the board members staring at me in stunned, dead silence.
Robert Sterling was the first to speak. He reached for his water glass, took a slow sip, and let out a dry, appreciative cough. "Well. I must admit, Sharon, none of us realized the steel beneath the silk."
"You never looked closely enough, Robert," I said, rising to my feet. "And neither did James. Now, if you'll all excuse me, we have an emergency press conference to prepare for before the stock market opens at nine o'clock."
By 8:45 a.m., the ground-floor lobby of Scott Capital was packed with reporters, camera crews, and financial analysts frantically whispering into their phones. Flashbulbs blinded me as I stepped up to the podium flanked by Robert Sterling and Daniel Wilson, who had agreed to stay on as interim chief technology officer.
"Good morning," I began, my voice steady, amplified across every major news network in the country. "Effective immediately, James Scott has been stripped of all executive powers, voting shares, and operational responsibilities at Scott Capital. An internal forensic audit has been initiated, and we are cooperating fully with federal authorities regarding recent regulatory inquiries..."
From the back of the room, a reporter shouted a question about Rochelle Cherry and the Hanover Pierce acquisitions.
"Scott Capital operates on absolute integrity and transparency," I answered without missing a beat. "Any past leadership that compromised those values has been permanently purged. We are moving forward—stronger, cleaner, and entirely restructured."
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By noon, the stock market had absorbed the shock. While Scott Capital shares dipped initially upon news of the federal raid, they rebounded sharply by midday once analysts realized I had assumed direct control, backed by my father’s untainted legacy estate and a pristine cash reserve. James was locked in a holding cell downtown, and Rochelle Cherry had been suspended without pay pending criminal indictments.
For the first time in ten years, I wasn't standing half a step behind anyone.
