Chapter 13 - The Darkest Recording
The audio file played in the silent, wood-paneled study, the tinny sound of a landline speaker filling the room with a chilling echo from the past.
“If Julian opens his mouth about the bridge stress reports, the entire family name is finished,” Robert Stanford’s cold, authoritative voice boomed from the laptop speakers.
Then came a younger, sharper voice—Donald Vance. “Don't worry about him, Robert. We’ve already cut off his heart medication access through the company health trust. Without his prescriptions, a man with his condition won't last another month under this kind of stress.”
Corbin gripped the edge of the mahogany desk so hard his knuckles turned bone-white. The breath caught in his throat, choking him from the inside out. They hadn't just framed Julian. They had deliberately engineered his medical collapse to permanently silence a good man.
He looked up at Clara, whose eyes were shining with unshed tears.
"They killed him, Corbin," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Not with a gun or a knife, but with systematic, cold-blooded corporate murder. And Lianna has been cleaning your floors while the son of the man who killed her husband signs her bi-weekly paychecks."
The weight of the realization crashed down on Corbin like a collapsing ceiling. Every luxury he owned, every stone on this sprawling estate, every brick of Stanford Development was stained with indirect blood.
"Where is Donald right now?" Corbin asked, his voice dropping into a dark, terrifying register.
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"Trying to board a private flight out of T.F. Green Airport to Zurich," Clara replied, sliding a flight manifest across the desk. "He’s liquidating whatever remains of the offshore accounts before the federal subpoenas hit."
Corbin didn't hesitate. He grabbed his car keys, turned on his heel, and sprinted out into the storm.
