Chapter 168 Breaking Down After The Victory
I stared at the photograph in the police file. Alexander Redford. The man who had stood beside Tristan for years. The man who had just executed Benedict Holloway on a dirt road.
I closed the folder. I picked up my phone and pressed the button for the security desk.
"Diego," I said. "Find Alexander Redford. Tell him I need to see him in my office. Now."
"Alexander is already here, Mina," Diego replied. His voice lacked its usual steady rhythm. "He walked into the lobby five minutes ago. He is waiting in the private lounge."
I ended the call. I stood up and walked across the carpet. I opened the door to the lounge.
Alexander stood by the glass wall, looking out at the gray clouds hanging over the city. He wore a dark wool coat. A leather travel bag sat by his feet. He turned to face me. He did not look like a man running from a murder charge. He looked at peace.
"You saw the security footage," Alexander said. It was not a question.
"I saw you step out of a black SUV," I replied. I kept my distance. "I saw the transport van. Why did you do it, Alexander? Benedict was going to federal prison. The war was over."
"The financial war was over," Alexander corrected. He walked toward the center of the room, stopping a few feet from me. "But Benedict was not going to sit in a cell and rot. He made a deal with the prosecutors. He offered them the Johnston family secrets in exchange for a lighter sentence. He had physical proof of the affair between your mother and Alexander Johnston. He was going to use it to invalidate your claim to the shares."
I crossed my arms. The chill in the room seeped through my blazer. "Let him try. I have the legal trust. I could fight him in court."
"You would have fought him for the next ten years," Alexander said. His expression turned grim. "He would have dragged your mother's name through the mud every single day. He would have turned Elias into a tabloid spectacle. Tristan stripped himself of his own legacy to protect you. He fell on his sword so you could stand tall. I was not going to let Benedict tear that sacrifice apart."
"So you killed him," I stated.
"I tied the final loose end," Alexander said. He reached into his coat and placed a small stack of passports on the table. "I leave for a country with no extradition treaty in an hour. My shares in the Johnston Group are already transferred to a blind trust. I am dead to this city."
I looked at the passports. I looked at the man who had traded his freedom to end a cycle of corporate violence.
"You ruined your life," I whispered.
"I saved my friend," Alexander replied. He picked up his leather bag. He gave me a single, respectful nod. "You won, Mina. The board is clear. The Whitmores are gone. Benedict is dead. You have no enemies left. Take care of Tristan. He needs you more than he will ever admit."
He walked past me. The door clicked shut.
I stood in the lounge alone. The silence pressed against my ears.
You have no enemies left.
The words echoed in my mind. For three years, I had lived on a battlefield. I had structured every hour of my day around survival. I woke up scanning the news for leaks. I went to sleep checking the locks on my doors. I built an entire company on the foundation of pure, unfiltered spite. Anger was the fuel that kept my heart beating when I had nothing else.
I walked back into my office. I looked at the massive desk. I looked at the financial reports stacked in neat piles. The stock market was stabilizing. The transition was a success.
I sat down in the leather chair. I waited for the rush of triumph. I waited for the sense of safety to wash over me.
Nothing came.
My chest felt hollow. A strange, vibrating tension gripped my muscles. I picked up a pen, but my hand shook. I dropped it. The metal clattered against the wood. My breathing turned shallow. The walls of the office felt too close. The air conditioning hummed, a flat, mechanical drone that made my skin crawl.
I grabbed my coat and left the building.
Marcus drove me to the apartment. I did not speak during the ride. I stared out the tinted window at the wet streets. The city looked different. The shadows did not hide threats anymore. The passing cars were just cars. The world was ordinary.
I hated it.
I unlocked the apartment door. The living room was quiet. My nanny had taken Elias to a children's museum for the afternoon. I was completely alone.
I dropped my keys on the counter. I took off my coat and let it fall to the floor. I walked into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. I splashed cold water on my face. I gripped the edges of the porcelain sink and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
I saw a stranger.
The woman who clawed her way out of Port Sterling was gone. The woman who stood on a stage and destroyed Thomas Whitmore was gone. Without the rage, my face looked blank. The fire in my eyes had burned out, leaving only ash.
My knees gave out.
I slid down the bathroom wall and hit the tile floor. I pulled my knees to my chest. A dry, ragged sob tore from my throat.
I was not crying from sadness. I was crying from the absolute terror of the void. The war had given me a purpose. The pain had given me a direction. Now, the map was blank. I did not know how to be a normal person. I did not know how to wake up in the morning without a target on my back. I felt stripped bare, exposed to a quiet life I did not understand.