Chapter 134 Sinking The Supply Chain
"I am not 'Miss Hayes,'" I said, my voice carrying over the roar of the rain and the shouting of the press. I pulled a single sheet of paper from the folder—the federal registry confirmation. "I am Minerva Serrano. I own twenty percent of this building, this company, and your salary. Move aside, or I will have the federal marshals remove you for obstructing a shareholder."
The guard hesitated. He looked at the paper, then at the cameras. He knew the world was watching. He knew that if he touched me now, he would be the face of a corporate scandal that would destroy the family's remaining credibility.
He stepped back.
The doors hissed open.
I walked into the lobby. The marble floor echoed with the sharp, rhythmic strike of my heels. It felt like a war drum.
I rode the elevator to the top floor. The silence inside the carriage was absolute. I looked at my reflection in the polished metal doors. I looked like a woman who had walked through fire. I looked like my mother.
The doors opened.
The executive floor was a hive of activity. Aides were scurrying, phones were ringing, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive coffee and old panic.
I walked toward the double doors of the boardroom.
Two more guards stood there. They reached for their radios, but I didn't give them the chance. I shoved the doors open with both hands.
The room went silent.
The long table was filled with the board of directors. Harriet Montgomery sat at the head, her face a mask of pale, frozen fury. Thomas Whitmore sat to her right, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the mahogany surface.
They all looked at me.
"You're late, Minerva," Harriet said, her voice a poisonous silk. "We were just discussing the legalities of your 'inheritance.' It seems there are some significant discrepancies in the paperwork."
I didn't say a word. I walked to the empty seat at the far end of the table—the one that had belonged to Alexander Johnston. I pulled it back and sat down.
I placed the bearer shares on the table.
"There are no discrepancies, Harriet," I said. "There is only a reality you are too proud to accept."
I looked at the clock on the wall.
Forty-two minutes left.
"Where is Tristan?" Thomas Whitmore asked, his eyes narrowing. He looked at the door, expecting the CEO to follow me.
"Tristan is busy," I replied, leaning forward. I met Thomas’s gaze with a look of pure, unadulterated loathing. "He’s currently conducting an audit of your North District warehouse. He wanted to see exactly what you were hiding behind those empty shelves."
Thomas’s face went gray. He looked at Harriet.
"You think you're clever," Thomas sneered. He reached for his phone. "But you've just made the worst mistake of your life. Did you really think you could play the board and the boy at the same time?"
My heart stuttered, but I didn't flinch. I had to keep them here. I had to keep the spotlight on this room.
"I’m not playing, Thomas," I said. I opened the folder and pulled out a second document—the list of Aegis patents. "I’m here to discuss the corporate sabotage of my company. And I’m here to discuss the criminal charges I am filing against the Whitmore Group for the illegal seizure of my property."
"You have no standing!" Harriet shouted, her composure finally breaking. She slammed her hand onto the table. "You are a common thief! You stole those shares from my husband's estate!"
"I didn't steal them," I said, my voice rising to a cold, clear ring. "They were a gift to my mother for her silence. A silence that ended today."
I looked at the cameras mounted in the corners of the room. I knew the feed was being recorded for the internal archives.
"The world is watching, Harriet," I said. "And every minute you keep me here, the stock price drops another point. If you want to save the Johnston Group, you will listen to my terms."
Suddenly, Thomas’s phone buzzed. He swiped the screen, his eyes widening as he read the message.
He looked at me, a cruel, triumphant smile spreading across his face.
"The audit is over, Minerva," Thomas said. He turned his phone toward me.
The screen showed a live video feed from the warehouse.
Tristan was on his knees. His hands were bound behind his back. Marcus was face down on the concrete, unconscious.
And standing over them, holding a gasoline canister, was a man I recognized from the Whitmore security detail.
But it wasn't the man that made me scream.
It was the sight of the blue blanket sitting on a pile of wooden pallets directly behind Tristan. The pallets were soaked in fuel.
"Sign the shares over, Minerva," Thomas whispered. "Or I'll give the order to light the match."