Chapter 28 An Epiphany
I step closer deliberately so that he can smell my perfume, and watch the rest of his body go tense.
"Fine. Move forward three steps… then right."
He takes one cautious step. Another. Then a perfectly measured third.
"Now, right," I say.
He turns smoothly.
"Two steps forward."
Lawrence obeys.
"One more."
He takes it.
"Stop."
He stops in front of the supply closet door, nowhere near the cabinet.
Jay whistles. "Damn. He's good."
"Right?" Beverly whispers back.
I roll my eyes at both of them.
"Next instruction," Lawrence asks, waiting patiently.
I glance around. Everyone is watching now with their phones out, and the content team is filming.
It's not every day one gets to see Lawrence Moore have fun.
"Open the door…" I continue, drawing closer, an evil smirk on my face. "Reach up to the top shelf and grab the first thing your fingers touch."
He reaches out, finds the handle easily and opens the door.
Lawrence's hand slides up the inside of the shelf slowly until his fingers close around something.
It's a giant tub of glitter body powder. Someone from marketing bought it for a "glow-up" video last month.
But Lawrence's clueless ass doesn't know that.
And the lid is loose too.
As he brings the tub down, the lid pops off completely.
A cloud of pink and gold glitter explodes, raining down over him.
It's in his hair, on his cheeks, shoulders. Everywhere.
The stuff clings to him, sparkling under the ring lights like he's been dusted in fairy dust.
The entire floor goes dead silent for one glorious second. Then erupts into raucous, uncultured laughter.
Phones snap away quickly.
Beverly is wheezing, clutching her stomach and leaning on Jay for support.
I have tears in my eyes from laughing so hard.
Lawrence stands perfectly still, glitter falling off him every time he breathes.
Slowly, he reaches up and pulls the blindfold off.
Another uncontrollable guffaw escapes me when I see pink sparkles on his eyelashes.
The room is still laughing, but the energy shifts the moment he starts walking toward me in quick strides.
Suddenly, everyone goes quiet, waiting for the explosion.
Lawrence stops an inch away, towering over me, silently staring down.
I shift back a little and avoid his eyes while the entire floor is holding its breath.
Then he shakes his head, throwing glitter on me.
Before I can even react, he runs both hands through his hair and resumes the shaking.
More glitter rains down over me.
"Mr Moore!" I shriek in surprise, shrinking back.
He doesn't stop. In fact, he moves even closer, following me, and shaking more glitter out of his hair like he's trying to bury me in it.
Flecks land on my shoulders, my blouse, my hair. I swat at them uselessly, laughing despite my annoyance at him.
The energy in the room changes again, and some of the staff laugh at us.
Lawrence keeps going until I'm equally dusted head to toe and sparkling.
When he's satisfied, he smiles evilly, brushing one last handful off his sleeve, and turns to walk away.
As he strides toward the elevator, glitter trails behind him like fairy dust.
The floor explodes in cheers.
"Thanks for joining us, Mr Moore!"
He doesn't look back till he gets into the elevator and gives a short nod.
The doors close.
"Big ups on making the Ice Dragon sparkle in front of the entire floor." Beverly chuckles, appearing at my side.
"Legendary work." Jay chips, sliding up beside her. "Seriously. I didn't think anything could make him look human."
I dust more sparkles off my shoulders, shaking my head. "I think I just signed my own termination letter."
Beverly snorts. "Please. The man walked out, fighting back a smile. He's not firing you."
She pats my shoulder before tugging Jay towards the snack table.
I glance at the closed elevator doors, fighting back a smile of my own.
Lawrence Moore just let me humiliate him in front of the entire company, on camera.
And he walked away covered in sparkles, not boiling with rage.
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LAWRENCE
Stupid glitter won't come off.
I'm sitting in my chair, looking like a low-budget Disney princess who lost a fight with the faerie king.
Scarlett will pay for this.
But I catch myself smiling.
Shaking my head, I force my attention back to the screens.
I must still deal with Kieran for taking her out on that date on Sunday.
I'm tempted to transfer millions from one of his accounts and spread it around to orphanages worldwide.
Anonymous donations.
He'll wake up tomorrow to empty balances and a trail of good deeds he didn't do.
That would be poetic—steal from the thief. (He stole Scarlett).
But again, my conscience warns that it's too much.
Leaning back casually, I let out a tired breath and pull up Scarlett's messages.
I'm invading her privacy by hacking her phone, but who cares? It's not like I'm reading all her texts. It's just the one with Kieran.
They've made plans to 'hang out' later this evening again.
Kieran's rented a top floor of Haven Hotels, a very expensive hotel downtown.
And to make things worse, from there, Scarlett is going over to his place to spend the night.
I abruptly get up from my seat, the vein in my temple almost exploding.
Fuck my conscience. I'm sending the damn money.
Sitting back down furiously, I hack into his accounts—however protected they may be—because I'm Lawrence Freaking Moore.
And I do so without a trace.
I start the transfers.
$100,000 to an orphanage in Moscow.
$50,000 to one in Mumbai.
$75,000 to a children's home in Nairobi.
Fucking bastard. He'll fucking pay.
I'm midway through the fourth—$200,000 to a foundation in Rio when my blood runs cold.
There's a large transfer of $500,000 in his history, sent to an offshore account that matches the hacker's payment pattern.
I've studied that payment pattern for weeks (every intrusion attempt and deposit that landed mere hours before our servers got hit), it's burned into my memory.
It's the same.
The three really good quick hops through other accounts to hide the trail, but I see right through it. The same money-mixing services used in the same order.
The same rough amounts… always in the hundreds of thousands, never nice round numbers, disguised to look like a normal business payment or investment return.
So when I see the same trail on Kieran's bank statement, it feels like an epiphany.
The date matches.
Three hours before the first real break-in to our New York servers.
"Black, you fucking bastard," I mutter, running the receiving account through the blockchain tracker I've been glued to for weeks.
It's the same entry point, three-hop chain, mixing services AND pattern of other payments landing in the same hidden pool of accounts.
I get up from my seat, scoffing loudly in disbelief.
This is no coincidence.
Kieran hired someone to do his dirty work.
The same man who once "stole" a major client from me, quietly and cleanly.
I'd let it slide because he once helped my mother.
When the dementia first hit, he connected us with the best neurologist in Zurich.
Even paid for the consultation himself, flew the specialist in, and never asked for a dime or favour.
That was why I tolerated him.
I kept telling myself he was just competitive, not dangerous.
But this… this is betrayal.
He tried to gut my company from the inside. And now he's going after my woman.
I sit down again, more determined than before, and open a fresh browser window.
If I'm going to crush Kieran Black, I'll need more than this.
I'll need irrefutable proof that would hold up if I ever decide to hand this over to my lawyers.
Right now, I have a smoking gun, but I need more that ties him directly to the intrusions. And when I find what I'm looking for, I won't just expose the bastard.
I'll fucking destroy him.