Chapter 220 Dropping The Guillotine On Stage
"If you nod at him one more time, I am going to walk out there and rip his throat out on live television."
Tristan paced the length of the VIP green room. The muffled sound of applause bled through the thick velvet curtains separating us from the main auditorium.
I sat on a small leather sofa. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with the smell of ozone and expensive cologne. I looked at the man I loved. He wore his tailored suit like a cage. He hated the waiting.
"I nodded out of courtesy," I said. I kept my voice soft. "A dead man deserves a moment of respect before you close the casket."
Tristan stopped pacing. He crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of me. His large hands gripped my thighs. He rested his forehead against my knees.
"I hate this room," Tristan confessed. His voice lacked the gravel of the titan. It held a raw, desperate edge. "I hate sitting in the shadows while he stands on a stage and claims your life's work. I want to break him. I want to make him pay for putting a bounty on our son."
I reached down. I threaded my fingers through his dark hair. I felt the slight flinch in his shoulders, a reminder of the bullet grazes and the bruises hidden beneath his crisp white shirt. He went to war for me. He bled for me.
"Look at me," I commanded.
He lifted his head. His gray eyes met mine. The sheer, terrifying devotion in his gaze anchored my soul.
"He is not claiming my life's work." I promised. I traced the line of his jaw.
I pulled a small, silver flash drive from my pocket. I held it between us. Celeste’s ledger. The blood money.
"He thinks he won," Tristan whispered. "He has no idea what you are."
Tristan stood up. He pulled me to my feet. He wrapped his arms around my waist, crushing me against his chest. I rested my cheek against his lapel. The steady, heavy beat of his heart drowned out the applause from the auditorium. We stood in the quiet room, a fractured partnership melted down and recast into an unbreakable weapon.
My phone vibrated in my hand. A single text message from Ricardo flashed on the screen.
He is wrapping up the speech.
I locked the screen. I slipped the phone and the flash drive back into my pocket. I picked up a thick, black leather folder resting on the sofa. Alexander Redford’s underworld intel. The hit list.
Tristan offered me his arm. I took it. We walked out of the green room and down the carpeted corridor.
We reached the heavy doors at the back of the auditorium. Two Johnston security guards stood at attention. They grabbed the brass handles and pulled the doors open.
The light hit my face. The noise washed over me.
Julian Whitmore stood at the glass podium on the massive wooden stage. The Johnston Group logo glowed on the fifty-foot digital screen behind him. He raised his hands, basking in the standing ovation from the shareholders. Arthur Vance and the executive board clapped from the front row. Oliver Pembroke stood near the edge of the stage, a smug, venomous smile twisting his scarred face.
I let go of Tristan’s arm. I walked down the center aisle.
The applause died. A ripple of confusion spread through the velvet seats. Hundreds of heads turned. The ousted Chairman was supposed to sit quietly in the front row and accept her defeat. The ousted Chairman was not supposed to interrupt the coronation.
I reached the front of the stage.
Julian lowered his hands. His smile tightened. The mask slipped a fraction of an inch, revealing the annoyed, arrogant scavenger underneath.
"Minerva," Julian spoke into the microphone. His voice echoed through the hall. "We appreciate your attendance. But the transition of power is complete. If you have a statement, my press team can arrange a moment for you outside."
"I do not need your press team," I said. My voice projected without a microphone. The acoustics of the symphony hall carried the cold, flat threat to the back row. "I stepped down from the Chairman seat, Julian. I surrendered my voting rights. But I still hold forty percent of the company shares. And as a major shareholder, I have a question regarding company finances."
A murmur swept through the crowd.
Arthur Vance stood up from his seat. "Minerva, this is highly irregular. The meeting agenda is set."
"The meeting agenda is a lie," I corrected. I walked up the wooden stairs. I stepped onto the stage.
Tristan followed me. He did not say a word. He stood a few feet behind my right shoulder. The shadow of the warlord fell over the stage. The corporate lawyers flanking Julian took an involuntary step back.
I approached the glass podium. Julian refused to move. We stood shoulder to shoulder.
"You promised the board absolute transparency," I said to Julian. I looked out at the sea of faces. "You promised to restore the trust. I think we should give the investors exactly what you promised."
I reached into my pocket. I pulled out the silver flash drive.
I handed it to a terrified audio-visual technician standing near the edge of the stage.
"Plug it in," I ordered. "Display folder A on the main screen."
The technician looked at Julian. Julian’s jaw locked. He possessed no legal authority to stop a major shareholder from presenting financial data at an open meeting.
"Show the file," Julian hissed. He thought I planned to display old Whitmore debts. He thought he was untouchable.
The massive screen behind us flickered. The Johnston logo vanished. A complex, dense spreadsheet appeared. Rows and columns of offshore routing numbers, shell corporation identities, and wire transfer logs glowed in stark white text against a black background.
The auditorium went dead silent.
"What is this?" Arthur Vance demanded. He squinted at the massive screen.