Chapter 2 - THE CRACK IN THE FACADEThe private dining hall at the Grand Zenith Hotel was bathed in amber candlelight. Twelve of the most influential board members and stakeholders of Kincaid Enterprises sat around the massive mahogany table, murmuring quietly among themselves as Daria and I entered.
At the head of the table sat Daria’s closest ally, Chief Financial Officer Marcus Vance—no relation to my investigator, though the irony amused me. Marcus immediately stood, raising his glass with a practiced, politician-like smile.
“Ah, our host! To Daria and Samuel, the pillars of Kincaid Enterprises,” Marcus announced, his voice booming across the room.
Polite applause rippled through the table. I took my seat to Daria’s immediate right, pulling out my napkin and placing it neatly across my lap. The food served was exquisite—pan-seared duck breast with a tart cherry reduction—but the atmosphere felt heavy, suffocating under the weight of corporate politics and hidden agendas.
“Samuel hasn’t touched his wine,” Marcus noted, pointing a manicured finger toward my glass. “Still mourning, my boy? It’s been two years. Even the dead would want you to move on.”
The table fell uncomfortably quiet. Several board members shifted in their seats, casting sympathetic yet calculating glances my way. They viewed me as fragile, a placeholder CEO waiting to be permanently sidelined by Daria.
Before I could answer, Daria cut in, her tone sharp as a scalpel. “Leave him be, Marcus. Some bonds aren't broken easily by time. Samuel loved Catherine deeply. It takes a strong man to honor a memory like that.”
Her words dripped with patronizing sympathy. She loved playing the benevolent matriarch, even as she was the one who had ordered Catherine’s execution and staged her fiery death.
“Thank you, Mother,” I said, lifting my glass of sparkling water and taking a slow sip. I looked around the table, locking eyes with each board member. “You’re right, Marcus. Grief changes a man. It strips away illusions. It makes you realize who your real enemies are—and who is pulling the strings from the shadows.”
Marcus chuckled nervously, missing the double meaning entirely. But Daria didn’t laugh. Her hand, resting beside her wine glass, froze. Her sharp eyes darted toward me, a flicker of genuine unease crossing her features for the first time.
“What an odd thing to say, Samuel,” Daria said, her voice dropping an octave, losing its public warmth.
“Is it?” I smiled faintly, setting my glass down with a crisp click against the wooden table. “You’d be surprised, Mother, what people are willing to confess when they think no one is listening anymore.”
Before Daria could press further, the heavy double doors of the dining hall banged open.
All conversation died instantly.
Striding into the room was not a hotel waiter or a late board member, but Commander Vance of the Federal Investigative Bureau, flanked by four armed federal agents in tactical gear. The silver badges on their chests gleamed under the amber chandeliers.
Marcus dropped his fork; it clattered loudly against his porcelain plate.
Daria stood up instantly, her face draining of all color, her royal composure shattering into a million jagged pieces. “What is the meaning of this? This is a private corporate event!”
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Commander Vance didn’t even glance at her. He walked straight toward our end of the table, stopping directly behind my chair. He looked down at me, gave a crisp, respectful nod, and then turned his piercing gaze upon my mother.
“Daria Kincaid,” Commander Vance announced, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit kidnapping, falsification of federal identity records, financial fraud, and attempted murder.”
