Chapter 4 - The Poisoned ToastMichael walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sprawling estate gardens, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. The moonlight glinted off the glass, reflecting the cold fury in his eyes.
"Julian," Michael muttered to himself, shaking his head slowly. "Ten years of loyalty. I made him partner. I trusted him with my father's legacy."
"Greed makes people do ugly things, Mr. Anderson," Marcus said quietly. "With you out of the picture, Julian becomes the interim CEO. Under company bylaws, a sudden vacancy at the top gives the Chief Operating Officer controlling voting shares during a transition period. He could liquidate Anderson Meridian Logistics, sell off our overseas shipping contracts to our biggest competitor—Vanguard Global—and walk away with a hundred million dollars before the board even appoints a successor."
Grace stood frozen near the door, feeling like an intruder witnessing state secrets she had no business hearing. She took a quiet step backward, reaching behind her to find the brass doorknob.
"I need to go," Grace whispered. "My son... Caleb is waiting with my sister. I should check on him."
"Stay where you are, Grace," Michael commanded without turning around.
He walked back from the window, his gaze locking onto her with intense, unyielding authority.
"You think you're just a cleaning lady who happened to be in the wrong place at the right time tonight?" Michael asked, stopping two feet away from her.
"I... I am," Grace stammered.
"No," Michael corrected flatly. "You are now a material witness to an attempted murder of a Fortune 500 CEO. And more importantly... you are the person who inadvertently ruined Julian Vance’s master plan."
Grace’s blood ran cold. "Ruined it?"
"Julian thought he had covered every single base," Michael explained, a bitter smile touching the corner of his lips. "He bribed the catering staff to slip refined peanut protein into the truffle canapés served during my speech. He bribed someone to clear out the emergency medical kits in the west wing. He calculated every variable. He calculated the response time of the Chicago Fire Department paramedics—twelve minutes in peak evening traffic."
Michael pointed a finger at her.
"The only variable Julian Vance did not calculate... was a desperate mother carrying a single EpiPen in her purse, willing to risk her own child's life to save a stranger."
Grace looked down at the floor, a fresh wave of guilt washing over her. "I took it from Caleb. If Julian hadn't stolen the backup supplies from the mansion, I wouldn't have had to..." Her voice trailed off.
"If Julian hadn't stolen those supplies, I would be dead in a morgue right now," Michael finished for her. He reached down, picked up the $10,000 check from his desk, and walked right up to her.
He didn't just hand it to her; he pressed it firmly into her palm, closing her fingers tightly around the paper.
"That check is no longer a down payment," Michael said, his voice dropping into a low, resolute register. "That is your retainer. Effective immediately, you are no longer on the cleaning staff of this estate."
Grace’s eyes widened in panic. "You're firing me?!"
"I am promoting you," Michael corrected sharply. "You are joining my executive protection and personal staff as my confidential liaison. Salary: one hundred and twenty thousand a year, full medical benefits, and a corporate health stipend that covers every pediatric allergy specialist in the state of Illinois."
Grace stared at him, completely speechless. Her mind spun. One hundred and twenty thousand dollars? Full medical benefits?
Before she could form a single coherent sentence, Marcus's radio crackled to life with a burst of static.
"Marcus! Marcus, do you copy?" a frantic voice shouted through the speaker.
Marcus unclipped the radio from his belt. "This is Marcus. Report."
"It’s the south gate security checkpoint!" the guard shouted over the sound of blaring sirens in the background. "Julian Vance just tried to ram the security barrier in his private Mercedes! We tried to stop him, but he pulled a firearm, shot out the automated camera system, and escaped onto the highway heading north toward O'Hare!"
Michael’s eyes flared with pure fire.
"He's running," Michael said.
Marcus looked up from his radio. "Sir, shall I dispatch the tactical unit to intercept him?"
"No," Michael replied, a dark, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "Let him run. A rat always runs back to its hole."
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He turned his gaze back to Grace, who was still clutching the ten-thousand-dollar check in her trembling hand.
"Welcome to Anderson Meridian, Grace," Michael said quietly. "Now... let's go help you get your son a lifetime supply of EpiPens."
