Chapter 7 - The Counter-StrikeThe conference room erupted into chaos.
Investors were shouting over one another, board members were demanding explanations, and Chairman Vance was staring at Margaret in absolute disbelief.
"Margaret, have you lost your mind?" Vance demanded, slamming his hand on the table. "Ethan has brought this firm record profits for five consecutive years! You can't just oust him on a whim!"
"It's not a whim," Thorne interjected smoothly, opening his legal binder and sliding photocopies of bank statements across the table. "As you can see from these certified financial records, Mr. Brooks has been funneling hundreds of thousands of dollars from corporate liquidity reserves into private overseas accounts over the last six months."
Everyone turned to look at me. The accusation was heavy, precise, and backed by seemingly undeniable paper trails.
Margaret looked at me with a triumphant, venomous smile. "You thought you were smarter than me, Ethan? You thought you could outsmart your own mother by waving a few fake printouts in my face? Those wire transfers weren't mine—they were initiated from your corporate terminal, under your digital signature."
The silence in the room was absolute. You could hear the hum of the air conditioning unit through the vents.
I looked at Margaret. Then I looked down at my watch.
2:42 PM.
Two minutes ahead of schedule.
I slowly reached into my suit jacket, pulled out my own sleek titanium flash drive, and calmly plugged it into the USB port of the conference room's main projector system.
"That's a very impressive fabrication, Mom," I said smoothly, standing up and pressing a single key on my remote clicker.
Instantly, the large projector screen flickered, replacing the merger presentation with a high-resolution, time-stamped video recording.
It showed the interior of my private home office. Specifically, it showed Margaret sitting at my desk late at night, typing furiously on my personal keyboard while I was asleep upstairs, inserting her own administrative override keys into the corporate ledger database.
A collective gasp echoed through the room.
Margaret’s face drained of color, her triumphant smirk instantly vanishing into sheer terror.
"That... that's a deepfake!" she screeched, pointing a trembling finger at the screen. "That's computer-generated garbage! He's lying!"
"It's not a deepfake, Mrs. Brooks," a calm, professional voice spoke from the back of the room.
The side door opened, and Federal Special Agent Miller from the FBI's White-Collar Crime Division stepped into the conference room, accompanied by two cyber-security investigators.
"We've been tracking unauthorized access to corporate accounts originating from an IP address in Louisville, Kentucky, linked directly to Arthur Vanderbilt's estate," Agent Miller announced, flashing his badge to the stunned board of directors. "And thanks to the full forensic audit Mr. Brooks voluntarily submitted to our office this morning, we also have the signed wire transfer authorizations bearing Mrs. Brooks's verified signature, moving stolen corporate funds directly into her personal offshore accounts to bail out Mr. Vanderbilt's failing business."
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Agent Miller walked straight past the frozen legal counsel, stopped in front of Margaret, and pulled out a pair of steel handcuffs.
"Margaret Brooks, you are under arrest for corporate wire fraud, embezzlement, and conspiracy to commit extortion."
