Chapter 8 - THE FINAL PIECEThe three investors sat in tense, paralyzed silence as Arthur Vance methodically laid out every single document, wire transfer receipt, and corporate conspiracy blueprint linking Marcus Hartwell and Preston Hale.
"Gentlemen," Arthur said formally, addressing the stunned investors. "As of tonight, both Hale Enterprises and Apex Capital are facing immediate, nationwide receivership due to federal wire fraud and systemic asset theft. Any investments tied to these entities through Marcus Hartwell or Preston Hale are legally null and void, and our legal team will assist you in recovering your principal capital directly from the perpetrators' seized personal assets."
One of the investors—a seasoned hedge fund manager named Robert Vance—looked directly at my father, his face pale with shock. "Richard, we had no idea. Marcus assured us that the expansion into Westbridge was fully backed by the family office."
"Marcus lied to you, Robert," my father said coldly, his piercing eyes fixed on my shaking cousin. "And my family intends to ensure that he spends the next decade of his life reflecting on the consequences of treason."
Marcus buried his face in his hands, letting out a muffled, desperate sob. "I was pushed out! Preston promised me a fifty percent cut of the restructured board! He said the Hartwells were losing their touch!"
"And instead," I stepped forward, looking down at my cousin with absolute pity, "you hitched your wagon to a sinking ship driven by a narcissist who would have thrown you under the bus the second things went south. Just like he did with Sloane."
My phone chimed in my pocket.
I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. It was an anonymous text message from a burner number: Please. Eleanor, please talk to me. I’m outside the building. The police are looking for me. I have nowhere to go.
It was Preston.
I looked up at Mason, who was already watching me with a knowing smirk. "He's downstairs in the lobby," Mason said quietly. "Building security called up. The local precinct issued an arrest warrant for wire fraud an hour ago, and the paparazzi tracked him all the way here."
"Send him up," I said calmly. "Let’s finish this where it began."
Ten minutes later, the private elevator chimed.
The doors opened, and two building security guards shoved a handcuffed, disheveled Preston Hale straight into the center of our living room.
He didn't look like a CEO anymore. He looked like a cornered animal—his designer suit wrinkled and stained, his hair wild, his wrists locked in steel cuffs.
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When he saw my father, my brother, the investors, and Marcus sitting in the room, he stopped dead in his tracks.
And then his eyes landed on me.
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