Chapter 9 - THE FALL OF VANCE & STERLING"You can't do this!" Harrison shrieked, his voice cracking as the two federal agents stepped forward, blocking the doorway. "This is a private corporate matter! I have signed authorizations—signed by your own proxy!"
"You mean forged by your own shell companies," Maya corrected sharply, tapping the stack of financial ledgers. "We traced every single wire transfer from the Mercer estate accounts straight to your Cayman Island holdings, Harrison. Coupled with the recovered testimony regarding the staged accident on Hawthorne Ridge seven years ago, your little empire just collapsed."
Harrison stumbled back, gripping the edge of the dining table until his knuckles turned white. He looked frantically at Nathan, trying one last, desperate gamble of charm and intimidation.
"Nathan, think about what you're doing!" Harrison pleaded, sweat beading on his forehead. "We've worked together for twenty years! You'll destroy the stock price! You'll ruin the company!"
"The company survived without a soul for seven years," Nathan said coldly, walking around the table until he stood mere inches from the trembling executive. "It's time it had one back."
Evie stepped forward, picking up the stainless-steel mixing bowl from the center of the table. With a deadpan expression, she walked over, placed the metal bowl squarely on Harrison’s head, and pushed it down until it rested just above his eyes.
"Consider that your crown, Mr. Vance," Evie said dryly. "The Queen of Burned Biscuits sends her regards."
The federal agents grabbed Harrison by both arms, snapping steel handcuffs around his wrists. As they hauled the sobbing, disgraced executive out of the dining room and down the grand hallway, the heavy oak doors slammed shut behind them with a satisfying, thunderous finality.
The silence returned to the mansion—not the suffocating, dead silence of grief and isolation, but the rich, resonant silence of a home that had finally reclaimed its soul.
Nathan stood by the table, letting out a long, slow breath. The tension that had locked his shoulders for seven agonizing years finally melted away.
He looked across the table at Evie, who was calmly dusting flour from her hands.
"Well," Evie said, raising an eyebrow. "That was dramatic. Even for a billionaire."
Nathan let out a short, genuine laugh—soft, warm, and entirely unburdened. He walked over to her, extending his hand.
May you like
"Thank you, Evie," he said softly. "For the biscuits. For the bowl. And for waking me up."
Evie shook his hand, her grip firm and warm. "Just doing my job, Mr. Mercer. Though you still owe me a new mixing bowl. That one has executive cooties."
