Chapter 37 The Devil's Dinner
Chapter 37 The Devil's Dinner
POV: Elizabeth
The restaurant was the kind of place where a single meal cost more than most people’s monthly rent—crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, waiters who moved like ghosts. Maison Blanche was so exclusive that even billionaires needed reservations weeks in advance.
Helen Morrison had secured a table in two hours.
I smoothed my dress as we approached, trying to project confidence I didn’t feel. Royce’s hand rested on the small of my back, steady and reassuring.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured. “You can still wait in the car.”
“Not a chance.”
Helen sat at a corner table overlooking the city, the skyline glittering behind her like a carefully chosen accessory. She was stunning in a way that made my stomach clench with inadequacy—pale blue dress that probably cost more than my car, diamonds at her throat and wrists, blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon. Old money and new power, wrapped in silk and entitlement.
When she saw us, her perfectly painted lips curved into a smile that never reached her ice-blue eyes.
“Royce,” she said, voice honeyed and sharp beneath the surface. “So good to see you. And you brought your little girlfriend. How sweet.”
The condescension in little girlfriend made my jaw tighten, but I forced a smile.
“Helen Morrison, I assume?” I extended my hand.
She looked at it like I’d offered her something distasteful, then shook it with the barest touch. Her hand was cold and dry.
“Elizabeth Wakefield. I’ve heard so much about you.” Her gaze swept over me, cataloging and dismissing in a single glance. “Though the photos don’t quite do you justice. You’re much more… ordinary in person.”
Royce’s hand tightened against my back.
“Careful, Helen.”
“Oh, don’t be so sensitive.” She gestured to the chairs. “Please, sit. I took the liberty of ordering champagne. We’re celebrating, after all.”
“Celebrating what?” I asked as we sat.
“New beginnings. Fresh opportunities. The future of Sterling Corp.”
The waiter poured champagne into crystal flutes.
“To business,” Helen said.
Royce didn’t touch his glass. “What do you want, Helen?”
She sighed dramatically. “Still so direct. You never did appreciate the art of conversation.” Then her expression hardened. “Very well. I’m offering to purchase Sterling Corp for three point two billion dollars. Twenty percent above current market value—generous, considering your recent difficulties.”
“Not interested,” Royce said flatly.
“You haven’t heard my full offer.” She set down her glass. “I could destroy Sterling Corp piece by piece. In fact, I already have. Your Archer merger collapsed. Your stock is down eighteen percent. Three major clients have terminated their contracts.”
My stomach dropped. I hadn’t known about the client losses.
“Market fluctuations,” Royce said, but I heard the tension beneath the words.
“Is that what you’re calling it?” Helen smiled. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like systematic sabotage from the inside. Someone very close to you has been feeding me information for months.”
Cold flooded my veins. There was still a mole.
“You’re bluffing,” I said.
Helen’s eyes flicked to me, amused. “Am I? Did you know your Jakarta office is about to lose its largest contract? Or that the encryption on Royce’s private communications has been compromised for weeks?”
Royce’s face went pale.
“Who?” he demanded.
Helen leaned back. “That would be telling. And I do enjoy protecting my sources.”
She smiled again, predatory now.
“I don’t need you to sell, Royce. I can wait while your company crumbles. But I’m offering you a graceful exit. Three point two billion dollars—and a leadership position under Morrison Industries.”
“Working for you,” Royce said coldly.
“Think of it as synergy.” Her gaze sharpened. “Of course, if you refuse, things will get much worse. For you—and for those you care about.”
My pulse spiked. “What does that mean?”
“Oh.” She feigned surprise. “I heard about Jessica’s unfortunate incident. Prisons are such dangerous places.”
My hands clenched beneath the table.
“You orchestrated the attack,” I said.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Her eyes glittered. “I’m simply saying accidents happen. And it would be a shame if Jessica’s attacker found a way to finish what she started.”
Royce stood so fast his chair scraped the floor.
“This meeting is over.”
“Sit down, Royce.”
The command cracked through the air. He hesitated—then slowly sat.
Helen pulled a folder from her bag and slid it across the table.
Inside were surveillance photos of Jessica in her hospital bed. Recent. Clear.
“As I was saying,” Helen continued calmly, “hospitals can be dangerous too. Wrong medications. Accidental disconnections. Infections.”
Her finger traced one photo.
“But I could ensure Jessica’s safety.”
“In exchange for what?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Her smile was triumphant.
“You leave Royce. Completely. No contact. You disappear from his life.”
The room spun.
“It’s not personal,” she said lightly. “You’re simply in the way. Royce is more vulnerable with you around.”
“No,” Royce said. “Elizabeth isn’t going anywhere.”
“Then you’re choosing pride over her family.” Helen slid another document across the table. “Sell Sterling Corp—or Elizabeth leaves to guarantee Jessica’s safety.”
“That’s extortion,” I whispered.
“Call it whatever you like.” Helen stood, smoothing her dress. “You have forty-eight hours. Try the police, the media, or clever alternatives—and Jessica dies.”
She finished her champagne in one elegant swallow.
“Choose, Royce. Your company—or your girlfriend.”
Then she walked away, heels clicking against marble.
Royce stared down at the contract, hands shaking. I stared at the photos of my sister—fragile, unconscious, watched.
Forty-eight hours.
Forty-eight hours to find a way out… or lose everything.