Chapter 11 - The Boardroom Ambush
The top-floor executive suite of Moretti Technologies in Manhattan was dark, save for the blue glow of the massive city skyline bleeding through floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
It was 9:00 PM.
The mahogany boardroom table, usually reserved for quiet strategic planning, was currently occupied by three hostile corporate raiders, two disbarred lawyers, and Grant Kingsley himself.
Grant sat at the head of the table. He wore a sharp, custom-tailored charcoal suit, his hair slicked back, a triumphant, unhinged smile plastered across his face. He poured himself a glass of scotch, swirling the amber liquid as he looked at the digital clock on the wall.
“Thirty minutes,” Grant chuckled, looking at his legal team. “Moretti’s private jet is still grounded in Frankfurt due to the air traffic computer failure. By the time he lands tomorrow morning, Moretti Tech will belong entirely to our holding company.”
“And Claire?” one of the lawyers asked nervously, adjusting his tie. “She still hasn't signed the injunction release papers sent to the Hamptons estate.”
“She’ll sign,” Grant said, his smile turning predatory. “Once my men remind her that her security detail has been temporarily... sidelined. She has no one left to protect her.”
Before the lawyer could respond, the heavy double doors of the executive suite didn't just open—they slammed violently against the interior walls.
The room went dead silent.
Grant turned his head lazily toward the entrance, expecting to see a panicked housekeeper or a terrified lawyer. Instead, the light from the hallway illuminated a very different figure.
Me.
I walked into the boardroom alone, wearing a sharp cream trench coat, my heels clicking sharply against the polished concrete floor. My expression was an absolute mask of cold, unyielding ice. Behind me, the security glass outside flickered as three federal marshals and two of Dominic’s senior corporate litigators stepped into the lobby.
Grant’s glass slipped from his hand, shattering against the mahogany table, amber scotch splashing across the documents.
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“Claire?” Grant breathed out, standing up so fast his chair screeched against the floor. “How—how did you get in here? You’re supposed to be in the Hamptons!”
“Did you really think,” I said, my voice echoing clearly through the massive room, “that after three years of surviving your lies, I wouldn't recognize a second-rate corporate ambush?”
