Chapter 14 - The Trojan MergerThe mahogany conference doors swung open precisely at 9:00 AM.
Jonathan Cross, CEO of Meridian Corp, walked in with the polished, predatory swagger of a man who owned the room before he even crossed the threshold. He wore a bespoke navy suit, silver-rimmed glasses, and a smile that didn't reach his cold, calculating eyes.
"Graham, my boy," Cross purred, extending a hand that Graham pointedly ignored. Cross didn't miss a beat, turning his attention to me with a condescending nod. "And Miss Vance—or should I say, Mrs. Reed? Impressive corporate maneuvering, pulling off that wedding while your company was burning down around you."
"Save the charm for the shareholders, Jonathan," Graham said coldly, gesturing to the empty seat at the far end of the table. "You requested an emergency meeting regarding the Southwest Transit buyout terms. We have thirty minutes before my calendar clears for a federal grand jury deposition."
Cross’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, sliding into the leather chair. He placed a sleek black leather portfolio on the table and popped the latches.
"Let’s not be dramatic, Graham," Cross chuckled, leaning back. "Reed Global is vulnerable right now. The board is restless, the public is questioning your leadership after your uncle's arrest, and your stock is volatile. Meridian is prepared to buy out your controlling shares at a forty percent premium. You walk away filthy rich, and we absorb the transit contracts."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the glass table. "And what about the cold case files currently sitting on the DOJ’s desk regarding the 2006 vehicle accident involving Robert Vance?"
Cross didn't flinch. Not a muscle in his face moved. He simply adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses and looked at me with clinical detachment.
"Old tragedies, my dear," Cross said smoothly. "People have unfortunate accidents on rainy roads. Only fools look for conspiracies where there is only bad luck."
"My father didn't have bad luck, Jonathan," a cold, metallic voice echoed from the corner of the room.
The heavy walnut door to the private AV annex swung open, and Agent Miller walked out, flanked by two federal marshals holding digital recording devices.
Cross went completely rigid. He slowly turned his head toward the door, his aristocratic composure cracking as the reality of the trap set in.
"This meeting is private," Cross hissed, standing up abruptly.
"This meeting is being recorded under federal warrant pursuant to an ongoing RICO investigation," Agent Miller announced clearly, flashing her badge. "Jonathan Cross, you are being subpoenaed for conspiracy to commit corporate espionage, bribery, and obstruction of justice in connection with the 2006 Vance homicide."
Before Cross could even reach for his briefcase, the marshals stepped forward, clicking heavy steel cuffs around his wrists with a sharp, definitive snap.
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As Cross was hauled out of the conference room, glaring daggers at Graham and me, I let out a long, shuddering breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
Graham stood up, walked around the table, and pulled me into his arms, burying his face in my neck while the morning sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing away the last dark secret of our shared past.
