Chapter 13 - The Kitchen Confession
I picked up the Manila folder, its weight feeling heavier than any balance sheet I had ever held. I walked slowly back into the house, the smell of burnt bacon and fresh coffee washing over me.
Cassandra was standing by the kitchen island, wiping flour off her hands with a dishtowel. She took one look at my face—the pale skin, the hollow eyes, the white-knuckled grip on the folder—and her cheerful expression instantly vanished.
"Damon?" she asked, her voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous tone I had learned to fear more than any corporate threat. "What is that?"
I set the folder down on the kitchen counter, sliding it toward her across the marble surface. She didn't touch it at first. She just stared at the Swiss banking commission seal, her green eyes narrowing.
"Marcus came by," I said, my voice thick with defeat.
"Why?"
"Calder found the Zurich accounts. The ones I used to fund the initial R&D for Clara’s machine back before we met." I ran a hand through my hair, pressing my palms against my eyes. "They’re threatening federal wire fraud and asset diversion charges. Unless I go to Seattle on Monday, sign their new executive charter, and relocate to Zurich to hand over the encryption keys, they’re going to hand the files to the DOJ."
Cassandra didn't scream. She didn't throw a plate against the wall or burst into tears. She just walked over to the counter, pulled the Manila folder toward her, and slowly opened it. She flipped through the dense legal jargon, her eyes scanning the itemized list of offshore transfers and shell companies.
When she reached the last page, she closed the folder with a soft, definitive snap.
"You did all of this for your sister," she said quietly, looking up at me.
"I did it because I was arrogant and desperate," I corrected her, my voice breaking. "And now it’s come back to destroy everything we’ve built. If I go to prison, Cass, you and the twins..."
"Stop," she interrupted, holding up a single hand. Her green eyes were burning with a fierce, unwavering resolve. "Don't you dare sit there and talk about abandoning us like a martyr, Damon Prescott. We've already lived through three years of your absence. We are not doing it again."
"Cass, you don't understand. I don't have a choice—"
"You always have a choice," she snapped, stepping right up to me, her finger pressing firmly against my chest. "You just don't like the price of the alternatives. You think you have to choose between being a corporate titan or a criminal fugitive. But you're forgetting something very important."
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"What?"
"We have friends in Portland. Real friends. Not corporate sharks like Marcus Vance." She walked over to the landline phone on the wall, picking up the receiver with absolute determination. "My uncle used to be a senior partner at one of the top criminal defense firms on the West Coast before he retired to the coast. He owes me a favor. We are going to fight this legally, Damon. We are not caving to blackmail."
