Chapter 4
My heart skipped a beat. I quickly converted it to ASCII.
Characters popped up on the screen: J.T.-0912.
J.T.
Jonquil.
0912.
September 12th.
My breath hitched. I stared at the string of characters, my fingertips trembling uncontrollably.
Jonquil. September 12th.
Three years ago, on a rainy night, the cobblestones outside the family estate's private cemetery were bone-chillingly cold. He held a black umbrella, and this exact string of characters was engraved on the handle. He carried me out of the Vance estate, and as he drove me to the airport, he told me, "Sloane, stay alive. Then come back and take everything that belongs to you."
But he clearly died in that car crash three years ago...
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the surging emotions back down. I dug my nails deep into my palms, using the pain to force myself into absolute rationality.
Dead or alive, if he was going to strip Harrison Vance down to his boxers and hand him to me on a silver platter, I might as well pour gasoline on the fire and watch it burn brighter.
I opened my eyes again, my gaze falling on the final piece of the Vance Holdings puzzle on the screen—the offshore money-laundering account Harrison had secretly set up.
"Third course. Time for the main event."
The second hand on the wall clock ticked, pointing to 8:30 AM.
Exactly sixty minutes left until the NASDAQ IPO bell-ringing for Vance Holdings.
Wearing my noise-canceling headphones, I had the screen split to display Vance Holdings' internal encrypted executive comms channel. As the "perfect corporate wife" who had originally built this system for Harrison, the backdoor I left for myself was now the perfect VIP box to watch his empire crumble.
"What the hell is Obsidian Ventures saying?! Why are they suddenly triggering their redemption rights?!"
Harrison's voice note popped up in the group chat, his voice hoarse and laced with barely suppressed panic.
The Head of PR replied instantly: "Harrison, Obsidian's legal team is already on-site. They're saying the core data for Nexus AI is locked down, triggering the MAC clause in the term sheet. If we can't secure an $80 million bridge loan to cover the valuation gap by 9:00 AM, they're going to force a liquidation and claw back all their preferred shares..."
"$80 million?! Where the fuck am I supposed to get $80 million?! What about the bank? Didn't the Managing Director promise to release the funds today?"
"The bank said... their risk management system flagged it. The loan approval has been indefinitely suspended."
A dead silence fell over the group chat.
I picked up my cup of cold Cup Noodles and took a sip of the broth, my eyes shifting to the fund flow chart on my other monitor.
The bank's risk management flag? That was me, of course. Ten minutes ago, I packaged the transaction logs from Harrison's offshore money-laundering account and sent them straight to the FinCEN whistleblower tip line.
Harrison's biggest trump card—the $80 million credit line meant to backstop the MAC clause—had just been pulled out from under him by my own hands.
*Ping.*
My burner phone tossed on the nightstand buzzed again, its eerie blue screen illuminating the dim Bronx walk-up apartment.
I grabbed it, my pupils contracting sharply.
[Your account ending in 8842 has received a deposit of $1,500,000.00. Memo: Cash.]
$1.5 million.
I stared at the number, my fingers tightening until my knuckles turned a pale, bloodless white.
Three years ago, when Vance Holdings' cash flow dried up, Harrison knelt in front of me, his eyes red, swearing he was only "borrowing" it for three months. He took the $1.5 million cash from my Family Trust Endowment, the inheritance my parents left me, and moved it box by box into the Vance family's underground vault.
Later, he embezzled the entire sum to cover the massive debts he racked up in Las Vegas, without even leaving me an IOU.
The $185,000 Art Deco Emerald Bracelet. The $850,000 SoHo retail space. The $1.5 million in cash.
These three wire transfers were like three perfectly interlocking puzzle pieces, reconstructing the exact outline of my infamous Bridal Trust from back then, down to the very last cent.
Total: $2.5 million.
The mysterious silent partner hiding in the shadows wasn't just using me to short Vance Holdings; he was using this almost obsessive method to "redeem" my bridal trust, transfer by transfer.
In the bottom right corner of my monitor, the encrypted chat app suddenly popped up a black dialog box.
[J.T.-0912]: He just smashed three water glasses in the penthouse office. He even tried calling a loan shark a minute ago. [J.T.-0912]: The champagne at the bell-ringing podium is already on ice. I'm in the VIP gallery, perfect view. Want to come watch him lose his mind?
I took a deep breath, swallowing the flutter in my chest, and typed rapidly.
[Sloane]: No thanks. Watching him die is far more entertaining than watching him cry. [Sloane]: But thanks for keeping an eye on him for me.
The typing indicator blinked a few times before a single, brief message came through:
[J.T.-0912]: As you wish, my queen.
Minute by minute, the seconds ticked away. The air in the cramped Bronx walk-up felt sucked dry of oxygen, leaving only the hum of the PC's cooling fans.
8:50 AM.
Ten minutes left until the bell-ringing.
The executive group chat on my screen completely exploded.
"Harrison! Obsidian's lawyers just filed a motion for enforcement! Our MAC clause... it's completely blown up!" "The SEC just called! They're asking why we haven't submitted the final pricing report. If we don't file it in ten minutes, they're pulling our listing!"
Harrison didn't reply to any more messages.
His profile picture went gray.
I knew he had finally figured it out.
The pivot IP pointing to the old laptop wasn't some insider's sloppy mistake; it was a decoy I deliberately left behind. I used his paranoia to stall him during his most critical golden hour, making him waste all his energy hunting for a mole, thereby missing the only window to patch the loophole in the MAC clause.
*BAM!*
A violent crash against the front door downstairs was followed by a chaotic, heavy thud of footsteps storming up the creaky wooden stairs.
He was here.
I calmly shut down the liquid-cooled rig and yanked the power cord. Reaching over, I pulled up the spoofed "predatory payday loan collector" text message interface, cranked the brightness to max, and tossed the phone onto the desk.
"Sloane! Get your ass out here right now!!"
Harrison's hysterical roars echoed from the other side of the door, accompanied by frantic pounding. The rusted security door groaned with a teeth-grating screech of twisting metal.
"It was you, wasn't it?! You planted that pivot IP on purpose! You hacked my system, you froze my accounts! Sloane, you vindictive bitch, you're trying to ruin me?!"
