Richard had been pushing for a proxy vote to liquidate the foundation's assets for months, claiming the charity was a drain on our corporate profits.
I had refused, knowing that Julian’s dream of a youth sanctuary was the only thing keeping his memory alive.
Tonight, at this gala, we were supposed to sign the final, irrevocable deed that would transfer the land and a fifty-million-dollar endowment directly to the foundation, permanently out of the corporation's reach.
If we didn't sign it tonight, a clause in our corporate charter allowed the board to vote on the liquidation in our absence.
And Richard was already inside, preparing to call that vote.
"Sarah," I said, turning to the director, my voice tight. "Who is in the VIP lounge right now?"
"Richard Sterling is there," she replied, her eyes wide as she realized the gravity of the situation. "He arrived about an hour ago. He told the board members that you and Eleanor had called him to say you were feeling unwell and wouldn't be attending. He said you gave him your proxy."
"A lie," Eleanor hissed, her fingers tightening around her purse. "We never spoke to him. He wanted us dead in that ditch."
"We need to go inside," I said, but as I took a step, my swollen knee buckled, and I would have fallen if Sarah hadn't caught my arm.
"Arthur, you're hurt," Eleanor said, her eyes filled with sudden, sharp worry. "And look at us. If we walk into that ballroom looking like this, Richard will know his plan failed immediately. He'll destroy whatever evidence he has, or he'll flee."
She was right.
Richard was a cornered beast, and a cornered beast is dangerous.
If he realized we had survived the crash and knew of his betrayal, he would use every legal loophole and offshore account he possessed to vanish, taking our son's legacy with him.
"We need a room," I told Sarah. "Somewhere private. Somewhere Richard and the rest of the board won't see us."
"The private suite on the third floor," Sarah said quickly. "It's reserved exclusively for you. There's a private elevator through the service kitchen."
"Good," I said. "And Marcus?"
The manager looked up, his eyes pleading.
"You are going to walk with us," I told him. "And if your phone buzzes again, you are going to reply exactly what I tell you to reply. Do you understand?"
Thorne nodded vigorously, his arrogance completely shattered.
We slipped through the side entrance, avoiding the main lobby where the laughter of the wealthy and the clinking of champagne glasses echoed off the high ceilings.
The contrast was jarring—the smell of expensive perfume and roasted duck wafting through the corridors, while I smelled of stagnant ditch water and fear.
We reached the private suite, a luxurious room decorated in deep blues and golds, with a large balcony overlooking the grand ballroom below.
Sarah immediately brought us a first-aid kit, warm water, and clean towels.
As I sat on the edge of the plush velvet sofa, wincing as Eleanor gently cleaned the mud from my face, I looked at the old leather purse resting on the coffee table.
"We have to be careful, Arthur," Eleanor murmured, her hands trembling slightly as she bandaged my forehead. "Richard has allies on the board. If we just accuse him without proof, he will spin this as the delusions of two grieving, elderly parents who are unfit to run the company."
"We have the proof," I said, pointing to the purse. "Julian's journal contains the exact offshore account numbers Richard used to funnel the sanctuary's funds. It proves he was embezzling for years, and it proves Julian found out about it the night he died."
"But we need to deliver it to the authorities tonight," Eleanor said. "Federal Prosecutor Cole is downstairs in the main hall. He was Julian’s close friend. If we can get this to him, Richard won't be able to buy his way out."
Just then, Marcus Thorne's phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out and read the message from 'S': *Where are you? Is it done?*