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Chapter 518
Chapter 518:
Crawford stood near the main console, preparing to give the order for the second wave of short selling. He wanted to drive the Beasley stock to the floor the moment the circuit breaker lifted.
The head trader suddenly shot up from his chair, sweat pouring down his face.
“Mr. Love!” he shouted over the noise. “We have an extreme market anomaly p>
Crawford moved quickly to the monitor and narrowed his eyes at the rapidly shifting data.
“Explain,” he said.
“Someone else is attacking them,” the trader said, pointing a shaking finger at the screen. “But they aren’t shorting. This isn’t a play for profit — it’s an assassination. A massive pool of spot cash is dumping the core assets of the Beasley enterprise. They are selling at any price p>
Crawford watched the numbers fall.
𝘋𝗈𝗇’t 𝘮𝗶𝘴𝘀 𝘯е𝘄 𝗿𝘦l𝗲𝖺𝘀e𝘴 𝗈n ga𝘭ոо𝘃е𝗅𝘴.c𝗈𝗺
“They aren’t trying to make money,” the trader continued, his voice thick with disbelief. “They are liquidating maliciously — taking enormous losses just to turn the Beasley company into an empty shell p>
Crawford’s expression turned lethal.
“Track the source,” he ordered. “Find the institution code for those sell orders. Now p>
The technical team’s fingers flew across their keyboards.
Three minutes later, the result flashed onto the main overhead screen.
The entire trading floor went completely silent.
The institution code belonged to the highest-tier proprietary trading account of the Compton Group.
The chief of staff stared at the screen, mouth open in pure shock.
“Boss,” he whispered. “That’s impossible. Everyone on Wall Street knows Alycia Beasley is Cole Compton’s fiancée. Cole is slaughtering his own future father-in-law’s company p>
Crawford stared at the code. His eyes narrowed into dark, dangerous slits. A complex, cold gleam moved through his pupils.
He raised his right hand slowly and made a single, sharp cutting motion.
“Halt the attack,” he commanded. “Pull all remaining short orders immediately p>
The traders scrambled to cancel the pending transactions.
Crawford walked back to the window. He knew Cole — knew how he operated, how he thought. But this was not business. This was a man burning his own money purely to inflict pain. There was no corporate logic here. Only raw, uncontrolled emotion.
Cole was acting like a wounded animal.
Across Manhattan, the top-floor CEO office of the Compton Group skyscraper was a dark cave.
The heavy window blinds were pulled shut. The room was dim and airless, thick with the smell of burning tobacco.
Cole sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his silk tie torn loose and hanging around his neck, his eyes completely bloodshot. He looked like a cornered, starving beast.
The Chief Financial Officer stood before the desk, trembling. Cold sweat dripped down the back of his neck as he held a tablet displaying the catastrophic financial reports.
“Mr. Compton,” the CFO pleaded, his voice unsteady. “We have to stop the liquidation. Selling these assets at rock bottom is destroying our own balance sheet. We have already absorbed fifty million dollars in losses this morning p>
Cole picked up a heavy crystal ashtray from the desk and hurled it across the room. It struck the carpet directly beside the CFO’s shoes with a heavy thud. The man stumbled backward in terror.
“I don’t care!” Cole roared.