I looked up at my reflection in the dark glass of the window. The tired, crying housewife was gone. The woman staring back at me had founded Vanguard Holdings at twenty-two and destroyed billionaires twice her age.
"Call the bank," I said, my voice dropping to a terrifying calm. "Freeze the proxy accounts. And get my tailor on the phone. I need a suit."
CHAPTER 3
The digital clock on my mahogany desk read 3:15 AM.
I hadn't slept. I hadn't even blinked in hours. I sat surrounded by a sea of illuminated monitors in the penthouse study, systematically dismantling the financial life of the man I had loved.
Every click of my mouse was another nail in his coffin.
The $50,000 he had drained from our joint account? Traced and locked. The Apex Logistics shell company? I had my legal team draft a catastrophic asset freeze, freezing not only his brother’s accounts but also placing a corporate lien on Harrison’s personal property. The Cartier watch Chloe wore? Paid for by a Vanguard corporate credit card, which I had just flagged for immediate investigation by the IRS.
But as I stared at the forged signature on the bridge loan, a sickening realization crept over me.
This wasn't a simple firing anymore. If I walked into the Vanguard boardroom tomorrow morning and simply unmasked myself, Harrison could panic. He still had digital access to the Midwest division's routing numbers for another six hours. If he realized the walls were closing in, he could trigger an emergency wire transfer, moving the stolen four million offshore before my security team could physically lock down the servers.
I couldn't just ambush him. I had to let him walk into the snare completely blind. I had to let him believe he had won.
"Marcus," I called out without turning around.
Marcus stepped out of the shadows near the door. "Yes, Ma'am."
"Contact David," I said, referring to the elderly interim CEO who had been serving as my public face for the last two years. "Tell him the board meeting proceeds exactly as planned at 10:00 AM. Tell him to propose Harrison for the Vice President role."
Marcus paused. "You want David to promote him?"
"I want David to put him at the head of the table," I said, turning my chair to face him. "I want Harrison to feel the crown on his head. I want him to sign the VP acceptance documents. Because the moment he signs those papers, he assumes total legal liability for the Midwest division's financial state as a corporate officer."
A faint, grim smile crossed Marcus's face. "The trap closes."
"Exactly," I said, standing up. My back ached, and the weight of the pregnancy pulled at my center of gravity, but I had never felt stronger.
At 7:00 AM, the private elevator chimed. A seamstress from my old bespoke tailor stepped in, carrying a garment bag. She took one look at my pregnant silhouette and immediately went to work.
By 8:30 AM, I looked in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
I wore a masterfully tailored charcoal-black power suit. The jacket was perfectly structured to accommodate my six-month bump, blending maternal softness with sharp, unapologetic authority. My hair, which Harrison was used to seeing pulled up in a messy bun, fell in sleek, dark waves over my shoulders. I wore a single pair of diamond studs and no other jewelry. I didn't need flash. Power is quiet.