Chapter 13 - THE LONDON CONNECTIONAfter the board meeting adjourned, I dismissed everyone except Mason and Julian.
The heavy glass doors clicked shut, locking us inside the soundproof sanctuary of the executive suite. The afternoon sun cast long, angular shadows across the conference table as I crossed my arms and fixed Julian with a hard, unblinking stare.
"Explain," I commanded.
Julian didn't flinch. He walked over to the wet bar, poured himself a glass of sparkling water with a twist of lemon, and turned back to face us.
"Preston Hale was a small-time crook with big-time delusions," Julian began calmly, taking a slow sip. "He thought he was the mastermind behind Hale Enterprises' rapid expansion. But the capital that fueled his rise—the liquidity that allowed him to play with the big leagues in New York—didn't come from traditional venture capital or local banks."
"It came from Europe," Mason supplied quietly, looking over at me. "Julian and his team tracked the wire origins back three months ago. The money was backed by a syndicate known as The Vanguard Group—not the mutual fund, but a private equity cabal based in Geneva."
My eyes narrowed. "A cabal? What do they want with Hartwell Properties?"
"Everything," Julian said sharply, stepping closer to the table and tapping a finger against the digital schematic on the wall. "Preston promised them a backdoor entry into the New York real estate market through the Westbridge acquisition. When you and Mason blew up his operation, you didn't just ruin Preston—you disrupted a multi-billion-dollar international money-laundering pipeline."
"And now?" I asked, my voice as cold as ice.
"Now, the syndicate thinks the assets are still accessible," Julian replied, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse spike. "They think Preston hid the encryption keys to the offshore vaults before he went to prison. And they’re looking for whoever holds the key to unlock them."
I stood up slowly, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window to look down at the bustling streets of Manhattan.
"They think Preston hid the keys?" I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Preston couldn't even manage his own mistress without getting caught. If there are offshore vaults, he didn't hide the keys. He probably wrote the passwords down on a sticky note attached to his desk monitor."
"That’s the problem, Eleanor," Julian said, his voice dropping into a serious, guarded tone. "He did write them down. And three days ago, someone tried to break into his prison cell at Rikers Island."
My head snapped around. "What?"
"The local precinct managed to stop the assault," Mason chimed in, looking grim. "Two guards were bribed. They tried to extract the access codes from Preston before federal marshals could transfer him to maximum security. Preston barely survived. He’s currently in the prison medical wing, refusing to speak to anyone except you."
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Silence fell over the boardroom.
The ghost of my past marriage had just come back to haunt me—not as a pitiful, weeping beggar on my living room floor, but as a living target in a high-stakes international war.
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