Chapter 222 The Feds Crash The Party
"My lawyers," Julian wheezed.
"Your lawyers left," I noted.
The auditorium was a storm of noise. Five thousand shareholders shouted. Flashbulbs strobed in a blinding, relentless assault. Every camera network in the country broadcast the execution of the Whitmore heir live.
"You set me up," Julian hissed. His eyes rolled up to meet mine.
"I gave you exactly what you asked for," I replied. I kept my voice flat, empty of pity. "You wanted a public transition of power. You wanted the world to see you take the crown. Now they see you."
"Federal agents! Nobody move!"
The shareholders scrambled, pushing against each other to clear a path. The agents stormed the stage.
"Step away from the suspect!" the lead agent commanded. He kept his hand resting on the holster at his hip.
Tristan did not move. He kept his forearm locked against Julian’s neck. He looked up at the federal agent. The warlord assessed the threat.
I placed my hand on Tristan’s shoulder.
"Let him go," I said. "The garbage collection is here."
Tristan held Julian for one more heartbeat, ensuring the scavenger understood the fragile nature of his existence. Then, Tristan released him. He stepped back, moving to my side. He laced his fingers through mine.
Two agents hauled Julian off the ruined podium. They slammed him against the digital screen. The Johnston Group logo glowed around his face.
"Julian Whitmore," the lead agent said, pulling a pair of heavy steel handcuffs from his belt. "You are under arrest for corporate espionage, wire fraud, conspiracy to commit murder, and violation of the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. You have the right to remain silent.”
Julian struggled. He fought the agents, his bespoke suit twisting and tearing at the seams. He turned his head and locked his eyes on me.
"You are a fraud!" Julian screamed. Saliva flew from his mouth. He ignored his Miranda rights. He wanted to inflict one last wound. "You are Thomas Whitmore's bastard! You carry his disease in your veins! You will never wash the dirt off your name!"
The cameras captured every word. The world watched the illegitimate son break down.
"I carry his blood," I stated. I let the cameras catch my face. "You carry his handcuffs. Enjoy the cage, Julian. Tell Thomas I said hello."
The lead agent shoved Julian forward. They marched him across the stage and down the wooden stairs.
On the opposite side of the stage, three agents cornered Oliver Pembroke.
Pembroke did not fight. He collapsed to his knees. Tears streamed down his scarred face. He held his hands up in the air, begging for mercy he never showed others.
"I have a deal!" Pembroke wailed as the agents yanked his arms behind his back. "I can testify! Julian paid the mercenaries! Julian planned the hijackings! I am just a proxy! Please!"
Nobody listened. The agents dragged Pembroke off the stage. His expensive shoes dragged across the floorboards.
Arthur Vance and the executive board members stood frozen in the front row. They looked at the empty space where their new king just stood in handcuffs. Then they looked up at me. They realized the magnitude of their mistake. They doubted the Chairman. They doubted the woman who built their wealth.
I looked at Vance. I offered zero forgiveness.
"Take me home," I whispered to Tristan.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket. He slid across the leather seat, closing the distance between us. He reached out and unclasped my trembling hands. He pulled me across the console, lifting me into his lap.
I did not resist. I collapsed against his chest. I buried my face in the crook of his neck.
"You got him," Tristan murmured. He wrapped his arms around me, a fortress of heat and muscle. "He is gone, Mina. It is over."
"He sent men to the school," I sobbed. The tears broke free. I refused to cry in front of the cameras. I refused to bleed for the board. But here, in the dark of the car, I let the terror out. "He wanted to put Elias in the ground. He wanted to kill you."
"But he failed," Tristan said. He pressed his lips to my temple. He held me so tight my ribs ached, a grounding, desperate pressure. "We are breathing. Elias is safe with Diego. Alexander is recovering. We won."
I fisted my hands in his shirt. I breathed in the scent of him. The solid, undeniable reality of his body beneath my hands kept me from falling apart.
"I was so tired," I confessed. My voice muffled against his skin. "I was so tired of fighting the ghosts."
"You do not have to fight them anymore," Tristan promised. He ran his hand down the length of my back, a slow, rhythmic stroke. "You executed the last ghost today. You burned the Whitmore name in front of the entire world. Nobody will ever question your legitimacy again."
I lifted my head. I looked into his gray eyes. The lethal warlord was gone. The tender, devoted husband remained. He looked at me with a reverence that stole the breath from my lungs.
"You stood beside me," I said.
"I will always stand beside you," Tristan swore. He brought his hand up and brushed a tear from my cheek. His bruised knuckles felt rough against my skin. "You are my equal. You are my Chairman. You are the only thing in this world that matters to me."
He leaned down and kissed me.
It was not a kiss of victory. It was a kiss of survival. Sweet, profound, and aching with relief. I tasted the salt of my own tears on his lips. I opened my mouth, inviting him in. The physical connection chased the cold void from my chest. He kissed me like a man who found religion in the dark.
I tangled my fingers in his hair. I kissed him back, matching his intensity. We communicated the things words failed to capture. The fear. The loyalty. The sheer, blinding love that survived hit squads and corporate ruin.
He broke the kiss. He rested his forehead against mine. We shared the same air in the quiet cabin of the SUV.
"Where are we going?" I asked. My voice felt rough.
"The coastal house," Tristan answered. "Diego took Elias there. The perimeter is secure. We are leaving the capital. Let the board clean up the mess in the boardroom. We need the ocean."
"I like the ocean," I whispered.