Chapter 50 The Lion's Den
(Mark’s POV)
“Lock the doors,” I said.
The sound of metal sliding into place silenced the boardroom. The directors stopped whispering. Even the air-conditioning seemed to pause, waiting for what came next.
I stood at the head of the table, hands flat on the glossy mahogany surface. My reflection looked like a stranger — same tailored suit, same calm face, but my veins burned.
“This isn’t a regular meeting,” I said, my voice sharp, deliberate. “This is about treason inside Simmons Group.”
Murmurs rippled. Faces exchanged worried glances. No one wanted to meet my eyes. Hale did. Of course he did. He leaned back in his chair, smirking like he’d read my lines before I spoke them.
“Mr. Simmons,” he said smoothly, “if this is about the audit—”
“This,” I cut in, “is about you.”
His smirk faltered. The others turned toward him like dominoes tipping in a line.
I pressed a button on the console. The lights dimmed. The wall-sized screen came alive, showing a frozen image: Hale, in his office, counting envelopes of cash.
“Play it,” I told Collins.
The footage rolled. Hale transferring funds from a corporate account to a private one — the same account we traced to Davenport’s offshore trust. His voice, clear as crystal: “She wants it quiet. No record.”
When it ended, the silence that followed was suffocating.
“That’s fabricated,” Hale said finally, his voice shaking but trying to stay smooth. “You can’t seriously—”
I hit another button.
This time, the screen showed him cornering a junior analyst — the same woman Becca once caught crying in the restroom. Hale’s voice again, oily and cruel: “You want a promotion? Then earn it.”
The room collectively inhaled.
I walked around the table, slow and deliberate, until I stood right in front of him.
He tried to stand. “This is a violation—”
“Sit down,” I said.
He didn’t. So I punched him.
The sound of it — skin against skin, bone against bone — echoed in the chamber. The directors gasped. Hale stumbled backward, blood already forming at the corner of his mouth.
I didn’t hit him again. I didn’t need to.
I leaned close, whispered so only he could hear, “That’s not for the company. That’s for Becca.”
He blinked, dazed, his hand trembling against his jaw.
Collins stepped forward, calm but firm. “Director Hale, security will escort you out. You’re suspended pending investigation. Legal will be in contact.”
The guards appeared like ghosts. Hale tried to speak, but the words tangled and died. When they dragged him out, he shouted over his shoulder, “You think this ends with me, Simmons? You don’t know who you’re fighting!”
I did.
And I was done playing nice.
\---
When the room finally emptied, I stayed there. Just me, Collins, and the ghosts of every decision I’d made.
“Get the press ready,” I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “Leak it before Davenport does. Make sure every network knows Hale’s betrayal before they can spin it.”
Collins nodded, then hesitated. He didn’t leave. He just stood there, holding his phone, eyes darting between me and the screen.
“What?” I asked.
He hesitated again — that pause that tells you the news is about to hit harder than the first punch.
“Daniel’s back in Atlanta.”
The words landed like a cold knife. I looked up, slow.
My stepbrother’s name tasted like rust in my mouth.
“Since when?”
“Two nights ago. We had a tracker on him after the explosion, remember? The signal went dark in Lisbon for months. It pinged again this morning.”
I turned toward the window. The city looked small from up here. Lights flickering like little lies. “And?”
“He’s been meeting with Davenport’s lawyers. Three times in the last week.”
My jaw tightened. My pulse didn’t race — it sank, heavy, controlled, deadly.
“He’s the leak,” I said.
Collins nodded once. “He’s the one feeding her your moves. Every plan, every angle.”
The rage came quiet. Not like thunder. Like a storm you feel in your teeth.
Daniel had always been the shadow I tried not to name. The golden child gone wrong. My father’s charity case turned opportunist. And now — the knife in my back, polished and smiling.
I turned away from the window. “Find him.”
“We will.”
“No,” I said, my voice low, steady. “Find him before I do. Because if I get there first…” I let the thought hang.
Collins didn’t argue. He’d seen that look before.
The screen on his phone blinked again. A new alert flashed — red, urgent. He frowned and stepped closer.
“Sir,” he said. “You might want to see this.”
I looked at the phone. A live feed from a city dispatch line scrolled across the top. Police alert. Transfer request.
“Becca Wilton — federal custody transfer scheduled. Immediate relocation.”
“Federal?” I repeated. “She’s not under federal charge.”
Collins scrolled, his face pale now. “That’s the thing… the van picking her up—it’s not listed on the registry.”
The words didn’t register right away. I blinked once, twice, trying to process them through the static that suddenly filled my skull.
“What do you mean not listed?”
“I mean,” Collins said, his voice low, “it’s not police.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
The room tilted slightly, the lights flickering against the walls. Somewhere in the distance, the city kept moving — unaware, indifferent.
Collins looked up, eyes sharp now. “Mark—?”
But I was already moving. My chair scraped the floor. My pulse was a drumbeat of fire.
“Get the car,” I said, grabbing my jacket. “Now.”
“Where are we going?”
I didn’t stop walking.
“To bring her home,” I said.
But when we reached the elevator, my phone buzzed. An unknown number. The same one that had haunted my nights for weeks.
I opened the message. Just one line:
“You’re too late.”
My throat tightened. The air left the room.
Somewhere in Atlanta, a van door slammed shut—
and Becca…
Becca was—