Chapter 68 Buried Accounts
“There is already an investigation going on within the company for Celeste’s death,” Greg Harlan said, his voice low and edged with nerves.
He sat in a dimly lit private lounge at an exclusive Manhattan club, the kind where deals were made and secrets buried. Across from him were two men: Victor Lang, a senior VP at a major luxury conglomerate that funded half of Ashbourne Global’s biggest campaigns, and Elias Kane, the talent manager who had handled Celeste’s day-to-day for the last three years.
Both men leaned forward, drinks untouched.
Victor swirled his scotch, eyes sharp. “How deep?”
Greg shrugged, but his hand trembled slightly as he reached for his glass. “Internal investigation. Ashbourne’s people are quiet about it, but they’re digging into contracts, bookings, finances. Everything.”
Jim exhaled slowly. “They won’t find anything that leads back to us. We were careful.”
“Careful?” Victor’s laugh was bitter. “We kept her high, kept her compliant, kept her mouth shut with ‘vacations’ and threats of no work. She was making us millions. And then she starts talking about going to Ravial directly.”
Greg rubbed his temple. “She was obsessed with him. Thought if she could just get a real meeting….”
“She became a liability,” Jim cut in, voice flat. “The night she died, she called me crying. Said she couldn’t do it anymore. That she was going to tell him everything, about the parties, the sponsors, the drugs, all of it.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed. “So you handled it.”
Jim didn’t blink. “I didn’t push her. She was already gone, pills, booze. She did the jumping herself. I just… made sure the cameras were off. Made sure the story stayed suicide.”
Greg leaned back, pale. “And now Ravial’s auditing. If they trace the money, the off-book payments, the ‘private client dinners’…”
Victor set his glass down hard. “They won’t. We covered our tracks. Different accounts. Shell companies. The girl signed NDAs thicker than a phone book.”
Jim smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “She thought those dinners were networking. Thought saying no would end her career. We made sure she believed Ravial knew. That he approved.”
Greg swallowed. “He didn’t.”
“No,” Victor said coldly. “And that’s the problem. If he finds out we used his name…”
The three men fell silent.
Outside, the city lights glittered.
Inside, fear settled like smoke.
Because Ravial Ashbourne didn’t forgive betrayal.
And the deeper the audit went,
the closer it came to the truth they’d buried with Celeste.
Lafu slammed her glass down, bourbon sloshing over the rim. Tears carved tracks through her makeup.
“I…I just know she didn’t kill herself,” she choked out. “But who’s gonna believe me?”
Marco and Stacy exchanged a worried glance.
Stacy reached for her. “Lafu, hon….”
Lafu jerked away, staggering to her feet. “No. Listen.” She fumbled her phone from her bag, hands shaking. “She called me 133 times that night. I didn’t pick up. I was busy fucking some guy.”
A few patrons turned. Marco shot them a glare. “Mind your business.”
Lafu ignored it, thumbing through voicemails. “Just… listen to this one.”
She hit play.
Celeste’s voice filled the space, usually sultry, confident, now small and trembling.
“Lafu… please pick up. I’m scared. They’re saying I have to go tonigh. I don’t want to. I can’t do this anymore. Please… call me back.”
A pause. Shaky breathing.
“They keep saying if I don’t… no more bookings. No more anything. I tried to say no last time and they….”
A muffled bang in the background like a door.
Celeste’s voice pitched higher, panicked.
“No, no, he’s coming. He’s….”
A clatter. A sharp clang, like the phone hitting the floor.
Then nothing.
The message cut off.
Stacy’s hand flew to her mouth. Marco went pale.
They hadn’t heard this before.
Lafu clutched the phone to her chest, sobs hitching.
“They were hurting her,” she whispered. “Forcing her.”
Stacy swallowed. “Who… who is ‘they’?”
Lafu stumbled toward the door, pushing out into the cool night air. Marco and Stacy followed.
She leaned against the brick wall, breath ragged.
“It’s going to get covered up,” she said, voice breaking. “The case is already ruled accidental, drunk, fell. But she was being abused. Trapped.”
Marco rubbed his face. “But… she looked fine the last time I saw her.”
Lafu’s eyes flashed. “When was that?”
Stacy opened her mouth, then closed it.
Marco answered quietly. “A month ago? Maybe more. She hasn’t booked much lately.”
Lafu nodded bitterly. “Exactly. She told me once she was being ‘punished.’ Laughed it off. I laughed too. Thought she was joking.”
Stacy’s eyes widened. “You think she was really being… trafficked?”
Marco exhaled. “We have no power here. We can’t go after whoever ‘they’ are. Who even are they?”
Lafu straightened, wiping her face.
“We can’t let them walk,” she said fiercely. “We find the truth.”
“How?” Stacy asked. “How do we even get this to the boss? He barely comes to the studio.”
“Valentina?” Marco suggested hesitantly.
Lafu shook her head. “No. Valentina runs the division. There’s no way she didn’t know something was off.”
Marco stared. “You’re saying Valentina could be involved?”
Lafu met their eyes, steady despite the tears.
“I’m saying I know someone who can help.”
They waited.
“Who?”
Lafu took a breath.
“Leitana.”