Chapter 7 - The Vote Brett Thought He Had Already Won

At 7:52 a.m., I entered the Holloway House boardroom wearing the same black gown from the gala.

I had not gone home.

Neither had Brett.

He sat at the far end of the table in yesterday’s tuxedo shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie gone.

For the first time in years, he looked like the young man from our first restaurant.

Exhausted.

Scared.

Dangerous because he was both.

Seven board members sat between us.

Three investors joined by video.

Two attorneys stood near the windows.

Sierra was not there.

Micah was with my sister.

My father waited downstairs with Celia.

Brett looked at me.

“You brought lawyers.”

“You brought a mistress.”

One board member coughed into his hand.

Brett’s eyes hardened.

“This is exactly why I asked the board to meet privately.”

“Then start.”

He did.

For twenty minutes, Brett described me as unstable.

Emotional.

Absent from operations.

Confused about historical ownership.

He displayed expense reports suggesting I had diverted company money.

The amounts were not enormous.

That made the accusation more believable.

Twelve thousand.

Eight thousand.

Twenty-one.

Enough to imply greed without looking theatrical.

Then my turn came.

I asked one question.

“Who approved the accounts those payments went to?”

Brett frowned.

“Our finance team.”

“Which executive?”

Silence.

I slid a document across the table.

Brett.

Every payment had been authorized by him.

The accounts were vendor reimbursements for renovation costs at locations he personally supervised.

The board attorney leaned forward.

Brett recovered quickly.

“That does not change the ownership question.”

“No.”

I placed another document down.

“This does.”

Celia joined us.

She displayed photographs of the original partnership addendum.

Then Opal’s trust.

Then the fifty-one percent membership agreement.

Brett laughed.

“Photographs of missing papers are not enforceable originals.”

He was right.

Technically.

For the next thirty seconds, he believed that would save him.

Then the boardroom door opened.

Warren Finch entered.

Brett stood so quickly his chair hit the wall.

“What is he doing here?”

Warren looked older under fluorescent light.

Smaller too.

But he walked directly to me.

And handed me a sealed bank envelope.

We had been at the Evanston branch when it opened at seven.

Inside was the original addendum.

Notarized.

Stamped.

Untouched.

Brett stopped breathing.

Celia placed it before the board counsel.

He examined the seal.

Then the signatures.

Then looked at me.

“Mrs. Holloway appears to retain controlling rights.”

Appears.

Such a small word.

It destroyed the room.

Brett sat.

No one spoke for several seconds.

Then he smiled.

That frightened me more than anger.

“You think this makes you innocent?”

I stared at him.

“Innocent of what?”

He opened his laptop.

Clicked once.

A video appeared on the screen.

Me.

In the kitchen of Restaurant Four.

Handing an envelope to a supplier.

The date stamp showed three months earlier.

Brett froze the image.

“That envelope contained ten thousand dollars in cash.”

I remembered.

Of course I did.

The supplier’s wife had needed emergency surgery.

He refused charity.

I advanced him money against a catering contract.

It had been documented.

Somewhere.

Brett knew that.

Which meant the video was not meant to prove theft.

It was meant to create doubt.

He looked around the table.

“We can spend months arguing about old papers. Or you can ask whether Audrey is fit to lead a hundred-million-dollar company.”

Fit.

There it was.

The newer weapon.

Harder to notarize.

One investor cleared his throat.

“We need stability.”

I felt it slipping.

Not ownership.

Confidence.

Brett knew boards.

He knew fear.

Then the boardroom door opened again.

Sierra entered.

She wore a white blouse and black trousers.

No makeup.

No brooch.

She carried a laptop.

Brett stared.

“Sierra.”

She did not look at him.

She placed the laptop on the table.

“I have the complete financial archive.”

His face emptied.

She looked at me.

“I also have the message where he told me to fabricate the accusation.”

Brett’s voice sharpened.

“You signed a confidentiality agreement.”

Sierra finally turned toward him.

“Yes.”

Then she smiled without warmth.

“And you signed your name to forty-three instructions you probably should have given by phone.”

The room went silent.

Sierra clicked open the first message.

Brett had written:

IF AUDREY WON’T SIGN, WE MAKE HER TOO RADIOACTIVE TO KEEP.

Then another.

MOVE THE OLD TRANSFERS INTO HER COST CENTER.

Then another.

And finally:

AFTER THE BOARD VOTE, DELETE EVERYTHING.

Brett stared at the screen.

The vote never happened.

It did not need to.

The board counsel asked him to leave.

He refused.

Security came.

As Brett reached the door, he looked back at me.

Not apologetic.

Not ashamed.

Furious.

“You think you won?”

I held his gaze.

“No.”

For the first time in sixteen years, I meant it.

“I think I finally stopped losing.”

Then Brett smiled.

May you like

[COMPLETED] “GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY DRESS! YOU’RE NOTHING BUT AN OLD SEAM...

[COMPLETED] At the Mafia Boss's Engagement Party, I Served His Hungry So...

[COMPLETED] The Mafia Boss’s Fiancée Tried to Dismiss His Father’s Loyal...

And said the one thing I was not prepared to hear.

“Ask your father who really forged your signature.”