Chapter 56
Emily Windsor's POV
My fingers flew across the keyboard, compiling profit margins and risk coefficients into a single, damning chart. Watching that profit line plummet off a cliff, a realization detonated in my mind.
Luke's approach was too gentle.
When dealing with wolves, you couldn't just snatch the meat from their jaws—you had to make them believe the meat was poisoned. That eating it would kill them.
I didn't need to fight endless legal battles for him. I needed to design a strategy that could transform these illegal operations from cash cows into hemorrhaging financial black holes in the shortest time possible—bleeding them dry until they collapsed under their own weight.
A business restructuring plan.
I leaned back in my chair, eyes burning bright despite a sleepless night.
The pain and confusion born from betrayal crystallized into something stronger, clearer—a singular purpose that burned through the fog.
Whatever Luke's true nature. Whatever the validity of my professor's evidence.
Right now, he, Lily, and I shared a common enemy.
United front first. Questions later.
I picked up my phone and dialed Carl.
"Carl, it's Emily." My voice was calm, crystalline. "About that European merger—I've changed my mind. But I need a favor. I need you to mobilize every resource the firm has to help me acquire several companies. Small ones. Very specific ones..."
When I hung up, dawn was breaking.
I watched the city slowly wake in the pale morning light, but the murky waters of betrayal and lies that had churned inside me all night had settled into something remarkably clear—a path forward.
I picked up my phone again and sent a message to Professor Douglas's encrypted number: [I need a secure channel. Single-line reporting directly to you only.]
The reply came almost instantly—an encrypted email address.
Without hesitation, I sent over a file I'd compiled from Lily's hard drive. Inside was my preliminary analysis of the Victor family's conservative faction's core players—Hank and Eugene—and the most critical black-market operations under their control.
At the end of the email, I added just one line: [My targets are them. Until I find direct evidence pointing to Luke, he is not my subject of investigation. This is my only condition for cooperation.]
I wasn't defending Luke. I was buying myself time and space.
I wouldn't be the FBI's puppet, nor a pawn to be casually sacrificed in anyone's power play.
I would see the truth with my own eyes. Uncover it with my own hands.
After hitting send, I washed up quickly and headed downstairs. Luke stood in the kitchen, heating a glass of milk for me.
"There's a senior executive meeting at the Group today," he said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his voice low and steady as always. "Get changed. You're coming with me."
I held the warm glass, looking up at him.
He seemed to read my confusion. The corner of his mouth lifted in the faintest curve, those deep eyes holding both the possessiveness I'd come to know and something else—a flash of what almost looked like pride.
"You said you wanted to be my weapon," he murmured. "It's time they saw just how sharp my weapon really is."
I nodded.
---
Victor Group Headquarters. Top-floor conference room.
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, New York's skyline stretched in gleaming rows. Inside, the atmosphere was as cold and hard as frozen earth.
Around the long conference table sat over a dozen people—the true power core of Victor Group.
These weren't the retirement-age relics from Victor Mansion who merely collected dividends. These were the men who actually controlled each business division, their gazes honed by years at the top, sharp with scrutiny and calculation.
Luke walked in holding my hand. Every eye in the room snapped to me instantly.
"Luke, what's the meaning of this?"
A man seated across from Luke spoke first. Mid-fifties, slightly portly, hair slicked back with meticulous precision. Behind gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes glinted with scheming intelligence.
Hank Harris. One of the two pillars of the Victor family's conservative faction, Eugene's counterpart.
His gaze traveled over me without an ounce of courtesy, appraising me like merchandise with a mix of dismissiveness and oily interest. "Since when do we bring pretty little ornaments to board-level meetings? What, afraid us old dogs are too boring? Brought some eye candy to liven things up?"
A few stifled chuckles rippled around the table.
Their stares crawled over my skin like oily serpents, raising a wave of visceral revulsion.
Fury boiled in my chest, but my face remained perfectly still. I didn't even bother lifting my eyelids.
Losing my temper with men like him would only drag me down to his level.
My battlefield was in courtrooms and contracts—not petty verbal sparring.
I could handle the insult. Luke clearly had no intention of letting it slide.
His hand tightened around mine. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
Luke didn't even look at Hank. He simply pulled me to the head of the table, sat down, and calmly opened the tablet in front of him. His finger tapped the screen once.
Without warning, the projection screen meant for meeting agendas flared to life.
No spreadsheets. No quarterly reports.
Just an enlarged police booking photo, complete with case number.
The young man in the picture had glassy eyes and the wasted look of chronic excess. Hank's worthless son.
Below the photo, charges were listed in brutal detail: DUI. Drug possession. Assault and battery. Aggravated assault.
"Mr. Harris," Luke finally lifted his gaze to meet Hank's rapidly paling face, his voice flat and emotionless—yet far more devastating than any shout, "if I recall correctly, your son put a club promoter in the hospital with a skull fracture last month. Over an Instagram model, wasn't it? I believe you spent quite a bit of money burying that story."
He leaned forward slightly. The smile on his face held no warmth—only a chilling emptiness.
"Tell me—if that nightclub's security footage, along with the victim's updated medical reports, were to land on a prosecutor's desk right now, do you think they might take a renewed interest in the case?"
"Luke!" Hank shot to his feet, face flushing a mottled purple. His pointing finger trembled with rage. "You—you dare threaten me!"
"Threaten?" Luke reclined leisurely in his chair, posture lazy yet predatory—a lion surveying his kingdom after a satisfying meal. "I'm simply reminding you, Mr. Harris, to keep your son's recreational activities under control. Don't let his filth stain the Victor family name."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the others seated around the table—every single one now silent as the grave. Then his eyes returned to Hank, voice light but unyielding.
"And one more thing."
His grip on my hand tightened.
"She's not a toy."