Chapter 342
Chapter 342:
“You,” Beatrice spat. She slammed a hand down on the desk. “You have the audacity to walk in here? After your father drags our name through the mud? Liam tried to go to the police because of your manipulation p>
Skye didn’t stop walking. She didn’t flinch. She moved with fluid, predatory grace, closing the distance until she stood directly opposite the old woman.
She pulled out the chair—the one usually reserved for subordinates being disciplined—and sat. She crossed her legs, smoothed her skirt, and placed her handbag on the desk.
“Liam isn’t the problem, Beatrice,” Skye said softly. “He’s just the symptom. The disease is sitting right in front of me p>
Beatrice’s chest heaved. “Get out. Before I have security throw you out p>
“You fired the security team yesterday to save money,” Skye reminded her. “Or did you forget? The stock price plummeted after the news broke this morning p>
Beatrice opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her face flushed a mottled red.
Skye reached into her bag. Her fingers brushed the leather cover of the ledger. She didn’t pull out the whole book. She took a single high-resolution photocopy she had prepared in the car and slid it across the polished wood. It stopped inches from Beatrice’s clenched fists.
“What is this?” Beatrice demanded, eyeing the paper like it was a bomb. “More lies p>
“Read it,” Skye commanded. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that made the air in the room feel heavy.
Beatrice hesitated, then snatched the paper and flipped it open.
Skye watched the old woman’s eyes scan the header. She saw the exact moment the words registered.
Account 774-8. Cayman Islands. Beneficiary: The Ghost Viper Syndicate. Authorization Signature: Beatrice Kensington. Purpose: Cleaning Services—Sterling Incident.
Beatrice’s pupils contracted to pinpoints. Her breath hitched, a wet, rattling sound in her throat. She looked up, movements jerky, frantic.
“This…” Beatrice stammered. Her lip quivered. “Where did you get this? This account was buried decades ago p>
“Buried with my parents?” Skye asked, leaning forward. Her voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and cruel. “Arthur kept records, Beatrice. He kept everything. This is a direct wire transfer from the Kensington Family Trust to the hitmen who cut my brake lines. It proves you embezzled from your own family’s trust to pay for a murder p>
𝖨𝖿 уоu 𝘀𝖾𝗲 𝗍𝗵𝗂𝗌 𝗻𝘰𝘃e𝘭 о𝘯 a𝗻𝘆 𝘴і𝘁e оt𝗁𝖾𝗿 𝘵h𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝖾.𝗰𝘰𝗺 𝘪𝘵 𝗶𝘀 𝖺 c𝗼𝗉y
Beatrice looked back down, staring at her own signature with the brutal finality of proof.
“If the Board sees this…” Beatrice whispered. The paper shook violently in her hands. “If the Trustees see that I used the Trust for illegal activities p>
“The Trust dissolves,” Skye finished for her. “The morals clause is ironclad. You lose control of the fortune. The money freezes. You go to federal prison, not a retirement home p>
The color drained from Beatrice’s face like a curtain falling. She clutched her chest, fingers digging into the silk of her blouse.
“My heart…” Beatrice gasped. She reached out a trembling hand toward the antique service bell on the corner of the desk.
Skye watched the hand. She didn’t move. She didn’t blink. She thought of Julian Vance, hooked up to machines because of these people.
Beatrice’s fingers brushed the bell, but her coordination was gone. Her hand swept sideways, knocking a porcelain teacup off the desk.
Crash.
The sound was sharp, violent, shattering the suffocating silence.