Chapter 4 - The Boardroom Audit
By 8:00 AM the following morning, the top floor of the Aethelard Global Headquarters in downtown Manhattan was a war zone.
The sleek, glass-walled executive boardrooms were filled with dozens of senior partners, forensic accountants, and corporate attorneys. News of Protocol 7 had sent shockwaves through the upper management ranks.
I sat at the head of a thirty-foot conference table made of polished black granite. I no longer wore the plain, oversized dress from the night before. I wore a tailored maternity suit in deep navy silk, my dark hair styled in a sharp, elegant bun. A delicate diamond pendant—the only piece of jewelry my late father had left me—rested against my collarbone.
Beside me stood Arthur Pendelton and Dr. Sarah Lin, the chief obstetrician from New York Presbyterian, who had spent the night ensuring my blood pressure and the baby's heart rate were completely stable.
"Ms. Vance," Arthur said, laying a thick dossier in front of me. "The audit of Brendan Morrison’s division is complete. Over the last eighteen months, he and his father, Richard Morrison, redirected approximately three pointfour million dollars in logistics subsidies into offshore shell companies registered in the Cayman Islands."
I raised an eyebrow. "Embezzlement?"
"Blatant embezzlement," Arthur confirmed. "They used the funds to cover personal real estate losses, Jessica’s art gallery debts, and Diane Morrison’s lavish lifestyle. They were convinced no one would ever audit the subsidiary because Brendan was married to you, and they assumed you were a clueless housewife who never looked at a bank statement."
I leaned back in my chair, resting my hand on my stomach. "And Richard Morrison? His father?"
"Richard was arrested an hour ago at his country club," Arthur replied calmly. "The FBI seized his passports, frozen his accounts, and impounded his yacht in Long Island. He is currently awaiting arraignment."
At that moment, the heavy mahogany doors of the boardroom swung open.
Brendan marched in, flanked by two corporate security officers who were holding him by his arms. He looked haggard, his clothes crumpled, his hair disheveled. He hadn't slept a wink. He was still wearing the same trousers he had worn to dinner the night before.
"Cassidy!" Brendan shouted, his voice hoarse as he tried to pull away from the guards. "You can't do this! You're committing corporate murder! My father is in jail!"
"Your father is in jail because he stole three million dollars from my company, Brendan," I said, my voice smooth and icy cold. "Did you really think I didn't know?"
Brendan froze, staring at me at the head of the boardroom table.
For four years, he had seen me sitting on our shabby couch in our old apartment, cooking dinner, washing his shirts, and quietly encouraging him. He had never seen me sitting here, flanked by the most powerful lawyers in the country, commanding a billion-dollar empire with a single nod.
"You... you knew all along?" Brendan whispered, his eyes wide with horror.
"I built Aethelard with my father before he passed away, Brendan," I said. "I chose to live simply because I believed true worth wasn't measured by logo-embossed bags or private jets. I married you because I thought you were a good man who worked hard. But the moment you got a taste of corporate power, you turned into a vicious, entitled bully."
I pulled a single sheet of paper from the dossier and slid it across the table toward him.
"This is a formal confession of judgment and asset surrender," I said. "Sign it, and I will instruct our legal team not to seek maximum federal prison time for your embezzlement. You will serve three years in a minimum-security facility, and the remaining debt will be cleared through the surrender of your personal trust holdings."
Brendan stared at the paper, his hands trembling. "And... and if I don't sign?"
Arthur Pendelton leaned forward, his eyes burning behind his glasses. "If you don't sign within sixty seconds, Mr. Morrison, we file the federal racketeering charges. You will face twenty-five years in maximum-security federal prison, and your mother will be indicted as a co-conspirator for receiving stolen corporate funds."
Brendan gasped, dropping to his knees beside the granite table.
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"Where is my mother?" Brendan wept, looking up at me desperately. "Where is Diane?!"
"Diane is currently staying at a women's shelter in Queens," Arthur informed him coldly. "Her credit cards were declined at three luxury hotels last night. None of her high-society friends would answer her calls."
