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The heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse master suite seemed to hum with the tension vibrating between Vincent and Sloan. / Chapter 15 / 30

Chapter 15 - The Counter-Strategy

Midnight descended over Manhattan, but the lights in the penthouse master suite remained blazing.

Willa was fast asleep in her crib. In the adjoining study, Vincent sat behind his heavy mahogany desk surrounded by legal transcripts, bank statements, and corporate insolvency filings.

Sloan sat across from him, sipping cold black coffee, her eyes bloodshot but razor-sharp.

“If we fight this in probate court, Eleanor’s legal team will force a public liquidation of the Savannah holding account to satisfy the creditor,” Sloan analyzed, tracing the edge of a document with her finger. “Which means they’ll target the four-million-dollar medical startup payout.”

“Let them,” Vincent said without hesitation. “That money was yours before we remarried. I can cover the four million out of my personal liquidity pool by morning.”

“It’s not about the money, Vincent,” Sloan countered, shaking her head. “If you pay it directly, Eleanor’s team will frame it as an admission of corporate fraud—they’ll claim you used Hale Holdings funds to bail out your wife’s fraudulent estate. The board will use it to strip your voting majority permanently.”

Vincent leaned back in his leather chair, running a hand through his dark hair. A heavy, grim silence settled between them.

“Then we don't pay it,” Vincent said slowly, a dangerous gleam returning to his dark eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“Eleanor thinks she’s fighting a corporate battle,” Vincent said, standing up and walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the glowing skyline. “She thinks she’s dealing with ledgers, balance sheets, and probate laws. But she forgot one fundamental rule about private equity.”

Sloan looked up, her interest piqued. “What rule?”

“Debt can be bought,” Vincent said softly. “And the original creditor holding Mark’s promissory note isn't some faceless corporation in Savannah. It’s a private venture fund called Meridian Capital.”

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Cold October wind whipped my hair across my face, but the stinging heat on my left cheek completely drowned out the chill. Mara stood beside me on the terrace, her hands clamped over her mouth as silent tears leaked down her mascara. Inside the glass doors, the jazz quartet had finally resumed playing, a jaunty, swinging tune that felt like a sick joke echoing across the luxury ballroom.

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Evelyn’s fingers tapped rapidly against her scrub pocket, her expression locked in grim determination. The air inside the cramped storage closet smelled faintly of industrial detergent and powdered baby formula, a sterile scent that did little to calm the rising panic clawing at my throat.

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Sloan’s breath caught. “Meridian? That’s—”

“Owned entirely by a shell corporation controlled by Arthur Sterling before he went to federal prison,” Vincent finished for her, a dark, triumphant smirk spreading across his face. “Which means... the debt doesn't belong to my mother or her legal team anymore. It belongs to the federal receiver handling Sterling’s confiscated assets.”

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