"We’ll know in ten," he said grimly. "Gear up. We’re not waiting anymore."
As he spoke, his pulse ticked harder in his throat. Jesse didn’t send half-assed warnings—if the footage tripped an alert, it meant movement, proximity, danger. Dawson ran through the possibilities: ambush, surveillance breach, or worse, a hit already en route. They were going to Shaw Petrochemical. Jesse was already on his way.
Evangeline was the key—her access, her authority. Without her, the security protocols wouldn’t let them past the lobby. And if Jesse’s surveillance was right, the threat wasn’t waiting in the shadows anymore. It was inside her company.
15
EVANGELINE
Evangeline stormed into the Shaw Petrochemical conference room like a field marshal breaching enemy lines, indignation and wounded pride fueling every stride. Each thunderous click of her boots rolled over the marble like detonations, echoing the intensity of her resolve—her emotions simmering beneath a tightly-held veneer, sharpened by the sting of disloyalty and the weight of her family’s threatened legacy.
She’d shed silks and stilettos for black jeans tucked into ebony cowboy boots, a turquoise overblouse belted in at the waist with a silver Western buckle. Bohemian jewelry—layered turquoise and hammered silver—glinted at her wrists and throat, catching the harsh overhead lights. Her blonde hair was locked into a steel-tight chignon at her neck. No lipstick stained her lips, no pearls weighed her down—just the unyielding arc of her spine and the cold fire burning behind her gray-blue eyes. She would not falter—not today. Today, she would reclaim everything they had tried to steal, determined to restore what had been lost piece by painful piece, no matter how long it took.
Around the immense mahogany table, men and women in navy suits and pinstripes sat like statues, muscles rigid, breathcaught in their throats. On the opposite side, the legal team’s pens quivered over yellow pads, fingers shaking with a terror they couldn’t hide. To Evangeline’s left, Squire froze in place, jaw like clenched iron, his gaze colder than the room’s frigid air. The vacant seat meant for Langley loomed like a dark accusation.
Behind her, Dawson stood sentinel—shoulders broad as ramparts, fingertips brushing the grip of his pistol, but his gaze never wavered from hers. She caught the way his jaw tightened, how his eyes swept the room—scanning faces, noting each nervous tic, tracing possible escape routes. Dawson was no stranger to tension, but the threat here felt different—quieter, layered beneath designer suits and legal jargon, all the more dangerous for its subtlety.
But he stayed back, letting her take the lead. This was her moment to reclaim her power, and she knew he wouldn’t undermine her strength—only stand ready to defend it if she faltered.
She slammed both palms onto the tabletop; the grain snapped beneath her nails. “Let the record show that I, Evangeline Shaw, am convening this emergency board session,” her voice cut through the vaulted ceiling like a whip.
Squire’s lip curled in grudging satisfaction. She didn’t glance his way.
A charged silence settled over the room, the kind that prickled against skin and vibrated in the bones. The tension was almost tangible—a living thing coiling tighter with every breath. Evangeline could almost feel the echo of her father’s presence, like a shadow at her shoulder, though he was thousands of miles away, unreachable. He hadn’t prepared her for this moment—had never intended her to stand at the center of a confrontation like this. And yet, here she was. Alone, steadying herself with the weight of what she knew he’d expect: composure, control, grace under fire. Every eye in the room shifted between her andSquire, the air thick with warning, waiting to see who would flinch first.
She sensed, without looking, the unspoken war raging just beneath the surface—a legacy hanging in the balance, reputations teetering on a razor’s edge. And Squire—she knew the smugness of his expression masked something more brittle. Was it arrogance, or the first hint of panic? Maybe both. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Before you even dream of trying to adjourn,” she said, fingertips dancing across her tablet, summoning a chime like a death knell, “you will hear my justification.” The projector behind her roared to life, the screen flickering crimson with accusation.
Rows of damning emails scrolled across the glassy surface—senders and timestamps bleeding in harsh light; subject lines branded in scarlet, each promising scandal:Urgent: Concealment Strategy Needed, Funds Redirect Confirmation, and Rhodes Situation Escalation.
A forensic chart pulsed on the screen, the red lines like veins threading through shadowy networks. In the center, a single blood-red circle scorched over a Cayman Islands shell company, its name glaring like a sinister omen—Red Coral Holdings Ltd. The digital lines flickered in the low light, every pulse amplifying the sense of danger, as if the chart itself were a beating heart exposing everything rotten beneath the surface. The company's name burned on the screen, a stark and damning brand—a smoking gun, finally dragged into the light.
She could still feel the tension from the other night, when she and Dawson had huddled in her father's old office at Shaw Petrochemical, pulling data off the compromised server. They’d worked side by side into the early morning hours, piecing together fragments of evidence, the air between them thick with shared purpose—and shared risk. Each new document felt likea live wire, the stakes climbing higher with every click and transfer.
She strode forward now, radiating authority with each measured stride—feeling the eyes of every executive and attorney burning into her, but holding her head high. As she crossed the room, Evangeline caught the flicker of pride in Dawson’s eyes—a fierce, silent encouragement that shored up her resolve and reminded her she wasn’t alone, not truly, not anymore.
“Our systems flagged irregular offshore transfers. This,” her finger fixed the cursor over Langley’s name, “is the shell entity he set up in the Caymans. The IP trace leads straight back to his terminal.”
A lawyer’s pen clattered to the table like flint on steel. Glasses rattled in their racks. Executives leaned so far forward their neck veins stood out like taut cables. The atmosphere was a collage of panic—an abrupt crash at the far end where a glass shattered on marble, the sharp sound slicing through tense whispers and the heavy, stifling hush. Someone sucked in a sharp breath, while another fumbled with their notes, hands shaking. Every sense was on edge; the entire room seemed to hold its collective breath, waiting for the next blow.
One director, hands trembling, fumbled for their phone beneath the table, firing off a desperate text to legal counsel. Another leaned close to a colleague, voices barely above a whisper as rumors and blame began to ripple in panicked undercurrents. The stale, air-conditioned chill was laced now with the unmistakable tang of fear—sweat, cologne, the sharp tang of panic clinging to every breath.
Evangeline’s throat worked once. “That entity siphoned seven million dollars from our sustainability fund into a phantom account. Peter Rhodes was the one moving the money—he was a corporate spy. Once I uncovered what he was doing, they killed him. He wasn’t useful to them anymore.”
Behind her, Dawson’s jaw locked, his heart hammering with suppressed rage and a protective instinct so fierce it bordered on primal. He fought the urge to step forward, knowing this was Evangeline's battle, her moment. The room fell into an icy hush, amplifying his silent vow: nothing and no one would harm her again.
She flipped the slide. A stark email appeared in black-and-white:
From:[email protected]
Subject:Contingencies
If Rhodes tries to go public or freeze us out, shut him down. If he becomes a liability, make sure he doesn’t get another chance.
A collective intake of breath sliced through the charged silence, sharp and metallic, as if a single blade had raked the length of the table. Squire’s face drained of color, all arrogance and composure leaching away beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. His knuckles went white where he gripped the edge of the table, and for a split second, even his voice seemed to desert him. The reaction rippled outward—a silent, visible shockwave—as the magnitude of what had just been revealed took root in every corner of the boardroom.
