Chapter 4
Chapter 4
I shifted my gaze to Evelyn, my voice dropping into an ice-cold register that silenced her instantly. "Check your bank accounts, Evelyn. The luxury allowances you enjoyed were paid by Vance dividends."
Evelyn froze mid-breath, her mouth hanging open in sheer disbelief as she realized the golden lifestyle she had flaunted for four years had been bankrolled entirely by the daughter-in-law she despised.
"The townhome in Manhattan, the villa in Monaco, the private accounts funding your charity galas," I continued relentlessly. "They were never Aaron's gifts. They were courtesy stipends drawn from my trust."
Evelyn reached into her soaked designer handbag, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she pulled out her phone to check her private balances, only to see every account flagged as frozen.
Jasmine stepped forward, attempting to summon the sweet, helpless charm she had used to displace me on the private jet only hours earlier, tears welling in her carefully made-up eyes.
"Mrs. Prescott, please," Jasmine whimpered softly, clasping her hands together. "If I offended you, I will resign immediately. Please do not ruin Mr. Prescott’s life over a seat."
I turned my eyes toward her, refusing to grant her the satisfaction of anger or jealousy, viewing her instead as an insignificant pawn who had overestimated her shallow influence over weak men.
"You won't have to resign, Miss Vance," I said evenly. "You will be escorted to the corporate precinct tomorrow morning to answer the forensic audit regarding the offshore accounts Aaron opened in your name."
Jasmine’s face drained of whatever color remained, her gasp catching in her throat as she realized the luxury apartments and overseas shell corporations Aaron gave her were public records now.
"Aaron... what is she talking about?" Jasmine cried out, grabbing his damp coat sleeve in terror. "You told me those international transfer documents were standard consulting stipends approved by legal!"
Aaron shoved her hand away with a frantic, desperate grimace, his singular focus entirely consumed by the closing window and the horrifying realization that his empire was crumbling around him.
"Alyssa, please! Don't do this!" he begged, pressing his palms against the glass as the window smoothly rolled completely shut, sealing him out into the cold downpour once and for all.
"Drive to the headquarters," I instructed my chauffeur calmly, tapping the divider glass as the Maybach accelerated smoothly across the glistening tarmac, leaving the shivering trio stranded in the rain.
Behind our vehicle, two black security transport vans pulled up beside Aaron, Evelyn, and Jasmine, offering them nothing more than simple municipal transit to an airport hotel under strict security surveillance.
As our car sped toward the glittering skyline of the financial district, Eleanor handed me the finalized agenda for the emergency shareholder assembly convened for eight o'clock the following morning.
"The institutional investors have already signed the voting proxies over to your family office," Eleanor stated, turning the tablet screen toward me with crisp, indisputable documentation.
"And Aaron's majority voting shares?" I asked, looking out over the neon-lit bridges connecting the corporate heart of the metropolis where Aaron had spent years pretending to be king.
"Aaron's voting power was predicated entirely on the solvency covenants attached to the original seed capital agreement," Eleanor explained with cool precision. "With those covenants breached, his voting rights are void."
We arrived at the private garage beneath the seventy-story Prescott Technologies headquarters long before midnight, where a specialized security detachment had already replaced the building's biometric access codes.
Every portrait of Aaron hanging in the expansive marble atrium had been discreetly removed, replaced by the clean, minimalist branding of the original Vance Research and Development Foundation.
I walked through the quiet glass corridors where I had once walked quietly in the background, bringing Aaron lunch boxes and reviewing his software architecture late at night without ever asking for credit.
In his corner executive office overlooking the harbor, I sat behind the expansive walnut desk where he had signed away my contributions while basking in the shallow flattery of sycophants.
I opened the top drawer and pulled out the original patent certifications for the neural-mesh architecture that had transformed his tiny, failing startup into a multi-billion-dollar global communications giant.
Every single patent bore my legal signature as the sole primary inventor, with Aaron's name added merely as a secondary administrative beneficiary under a conditional revocable licensing deed.
Four years ago, when he knelt in tears on the floor of our rented apartment, terrified of going to prison for startup debts, I gave him my work to save his self-esteem.
He had promised me under the dim streetlights outside our first modest office that he would dedicate his life to honoring my genius, swearing that my sacrifices would never be forgotten.
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Yet the moment venture capital flooded his accounts and corporate magazines slapped his face on their glossy covers, he convinced himself that he alone was the mastermind behind our success.
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