[CONTENT TEMPLATE HERE]
Chapter 741:
She sat perfectly still, recording every word. When Richard finally left the VIP room an hour later, Joan had enough evidence to put him in prison for the rest of his life.
She stood, slung her purse over her shoulder, and walked quickly toward the back exit, her head held high. She felt invincible. She had done it. All by herself. No one had helped her. No one had saved her. She had won.
She climbed into Easton’s car, which was waiting in the alley.
“I got it,” she said, grinning, holding up her phone. “I have everything. Richard is going down p>
Easton smiled back at her and reached over to squeeze her hand. “I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you p>
As the car pulled away from the curb, Joan never looked back.
𝘙о𝗆𝖺nce 𝗻𝘰𝘃𝖾ls 𝗼ո
She never saw the man standing in the window of the control room, watching her leave.
Lucas pulled out his phone and sent Cole a single text: Target is safe. Mission accomplished.
At two o’clock in the morning, a black Lincoln Navigator swerved up the driveway of the Beasley mansion on Long Island. It skidded to a stop in front of the porch, tires screeching.
The driver got out and yanked open the back door. He dragged Richard Beasley out by the arm. Richard was so drunk he could barely stand. He reeked of cheap whiskey, cigar smoke, and perfume, muttering to himself in a broken slur.
“Fucking banks… freezing my accounts… I’ll show them… I’ll burn the whole fucking thing down p>
The butler hurried down the steps, his face lined with worry. He took Richard’s other arm, helping the driver haul him up the porch steps.
“Easy, sir,” the butler said. “Let’s get you to bed p>
Richard shoved him away roughly, stumbling into the foyer. “I don’t need your help, you old fool! I’m fine! I’m Richard fucking Beasley! I own this place p>
The mansion was quiet and empty. Most of the staff had been laid off months ago, when the money had started to run out. The expensive paintings and antique furniture had been sold off one by one to pay Richard’s gambling debts. The walls were bare, the floors dusty. It looked like a ghost of the grand home it had once been.
At the top of the stairs, Alisha stood in the shadows, watching.
She wore a thin silk nightgown, her face pale, dark circles carved beneath her eyes. She hadn’t left the house in three days—not since Cole had left her standing in front of the courthouse, humiliated and alone. Not since the judge had thrown out her lawsuit and ordered her to pay Joan’s legal fees.
Her whole world had collapsed. She had lost Cole. She had lost her money. She had lost her reputation. Everyone in New York was laughing at her.
And it was all Joan Hale’s fault.
She watched her father stumble through the foyer, and a wave of pure, unadulterated hatred washed over her. Look at him. A pathetic, drunken old man. This was the man who had ruined her life—who had gambled away their fortune, who had destroyed their family name.