Chapter 5 - The Unmasking"You can't do this!" Sloane shrieked, taking two sharp steps toward me, waving her iPad in the air. "The company charter requires a fourteen-day notice for an executive removal vote! Grant's contract is protected by a fifty-million-dollar golden parachute clause!"
I didn't even look at her. I didn't acknowledge her existence by so much as a glance.
Nathan stepped forward, opening the first thick leather binder, sliding three certified financial documents across the table to the board members.
"Under Section 8 of the Whitmore corporate charter," Nathan explained smoothly, "the fourteen-day notice requirement is automatically waived in the event of documented criminal asset diversion or corporate fraud."
Grant’s face drained of every drop of color. "What... what asset diversion?"
"Over the last fourteen months," Nathan continued, pointing a long finger at the spreadsheets, "Grant Whitmore authorized two-point-six million dollars in unauthorized corporate marketing grants paid directly to Avery Media LLC—Sloane Avery’s private shell company."
The board members gasped, scrambling to read the paper trail.
"He used company capital to lease her River North penthouse, buy her Range Rover, and fund her social media production team," Nathan revealed, his voice ringing with absolute legal certainty. "And yesterday afternoon, he brought a five-year-old child onto an un-permitted commercial shoot at a public mall to generate fake engagement for a brand sponsor that was paying Avery Media directly."
Grant collapsed back into his leather armchair, his chest heaving in shallow, panicked gasps. He looked around the table at the twelve directors—men and women who had praised his corporate leadership twelve hours ago—now looking at him with utter, unadulterated disgust.
Sloane stood frozen near the window, her mouth open, her face completely drained of color as she realized her entire media empire was about to be seized by federal financial auditors.
"Grant," my father spoke softly from the end of the table, his eyes locking onto his son-in-law with dark, unyielding judgment. "You thought my daughter was a quiet, agreeable woman who would stay home while you played CEO with your mistress. You forgot who raised her."
My father raised his hand, pointing his finger toward the board members.
"All those in favor of Motion 42," my father commanded, "raise your hand."
Twelve hands went up instantly.
Unanimous.
May you like
Grant stared at the raised hands, his mind completely shattered, his corporate empire, his fortune, and his public name dissolving into dust in a single fraction of a second.
"Grant Whitmore," I said, leaning down over the mahogany table, looking straight into his bloodshot, weeping eyes. "You are stripped of your presidency. Your stock options are frozen pending the forensic audit. And you have thirty minutes to clear your personal belongings from this building before security escorts you to the street."
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