Chapter 130: The Poisoned Chalice

Knowing the enemy within Maya Li was one thing. Proving it, in a way that would be incontrovertible to the remaining board and the world, was another. They needed her to betray herself. They needed the compass to point, visibly and undeniably, towards a target only she could know.

Sabatine’s proposal, delivered through layers of static on the secure line, was as elegant as it was terrifying: feed false intelligence and watch who took the bait.

“We create a document,” Sabatine’s digitized voice explained. “A blueprint for something Anton cares about deeply, something with zero corporate value, maximum personal significance. We seed it into the corporate system with a flaw so subtle only the person who knows the real project would spot it—a flaw that makes it a perfect, irresistible target for sabotage. Then we watch. If Li is our compass, she’ll identify it, flag it to Thorne, and they’ll move to destroy it. We’ll have her in the act.”

Anton listened, pacing the length of his study. The plan was a masterstroke of psychological warfare. It played on the traitor’s need to prove her worth, to continue the pattern of personal erasure. But it also meant weaponizing his own vulnerability, his mother’s memory, as bait.

“The Hampshire music room,” Anton said, the words tasting of ash. “The renovation plans.”

“Yes,” Sabatine confirmed. “You told me you’d commissioned bespoke acoustic panels from a master craftsman in Vienna. The designs are unique, and exist only on a private server. We create a forgery of those plans. We insert a critical, hidden flaw in the structural specs for the antique floorboards—a flaw that would cause the entire raised floor to collapse under weight if not corrected. To anyone else, it’s an obscure renovation file. To Li, who would have seen the real plans if she’s been digging into your personal life, it’s a glaring, catastrophic error. A perfect sabotage opportunity.”

“And we put this forgery where?”

“In the digital archive for the Hampshire estate,” Sabatine said. “A server she has legitimate legal reason to access for property tax and heritage purposes. We make it look like an accidental upload from your private architect. We then let a minor, unrelated security ‘glitch’ be discovered in that server’s logs, something Jessica can ‘accidentally’ mention to Li in the context of post-Geneva audits. Li, if she’s guilty, will be compelled to check the server herself, to see if her access is compromised. She’ll find the file. She’ll see the flaw. And she’ll report it.”

“To Thorne,” Anton finished, the pieces locking together with dreadful symmetry. “Who will dispatch Croft, or someone like him, to ensure the ‘accident’ happens. A tragic collapse during renovation, destroying your mother’s legacy. Another personal defeat.”

“And we’ll be watching every digital step she takes from the moment the ‘glitch’ is mentioned,” Sabatine said. “We’ll have intercepts on her private lines, surveillance on her movements. When she contacts Thorne, when the order goes to Croft, we’ll have the entire chain. Audio, data, a physical plot. It’s a prosecutor’s dream.”

The plan was perfect. And it made Anton feel physically ill.

He stopped pacing, gripping the back of a chair. “It’s a huge risk. If she’s smarter than we think, if she smells a trap…”

“Then nothing happens,” Sabatine countered. “The file sits there. No harm done. But if she’s the traitor, and she’s as invested in your personal destruction as the cipher suggests, she won’t be able to resist. It’s the ultimate test of her motive.”

Anton looked out at the city, the fortress he’d built that now felt like a house of mirrors. To agree was to knowingly dangle his most tender memory on a hook. It was to use his love for his mother as a weapon in a war she’d never known. It felt like a desecration.

But what was the alternative? Let Li continue to guide the knife? Let Thorne and Silas continue their campaign of erasure, always one step ahead because they had a spy in his innermost council?

He thought of Sabatine, a ghost in the cold, risking everything to break the cipher. He thought of the two billion dollars he’d already sacrificed, the purges, the fear, the constant, grinding pressure. This was the endgame. To win a war, you sometimes had to risk what you were fighting for.

“Alright,” Anton said, the word dragged from a deep, wounded place within him. “We do it. Against my better judgment, against every instinct I have to protect that room… we do it.”

He heard Sabatine let out a slow breath over the line. “I’ll have the forged file ready in twelve hours. The structural flaw will be designed by a friend of Leon’s—a real architect who can make it look genuine. You need to have Jessica plant the seed about the server glitch. It has to be casual. Overwhelmed-CEO’s-assistant casual.”

“I’ll brief Jessica,” Anton said, his voice regaining some of its steel. The decision was made. Now comes the execution. “She’ll know what to do.”

“Anton,” Sabatine’s voice softened, the encryption struggling to convey the nuance. “I’m sorry. About using the music room.”

“Don’t be,” Anton replied, the fury and grief crystallizing into a cold, diamond-hard resolve. “She loved music. She loved the truth. This… this is for truth. She would understand.”

The line went dead. Anton remained at the window, his reflection a grim monument in the glass. He was about to serve a poisoned chalice to a woman he had trusted with his company’s soul. He was betting his mother’s memory against the final, definitive proof of treason.

He called Jessica in. Her face, when he outlined the plan, paled. But she was a soldier in this war now. She nodded, her expression settling into one of grim determination. “I’ll mention the server audit anomaly to her at the end of our one-on-one tomorrow. I’ll frame it as a bureaucratic headache. She’ll offer to look into it. She always does.”

The trap was set. The bait, a phantom of grief and love, was placed. Now, they waited. Anton moved through the next day in a state of heightened, agonizing awareness. Every interaction with Maya Li was a minefield. She was her usual, composed self during a legal review of the Stuttgart deal, her questions sharp, her advice sound. He watched her, looking for a flicker of guilt, of hidden knowledge. He saw nothing but professional competence. The perfect spy.

When Jessica reported back that evening, her voice was tight. “I mentioned the glitch. She seemed mildly concerned. Said she’d run a diagnostic herself to save IT the time. She logged into the Hampshire server at 4:17 p.m. The session lasted eight minutes.”

Eight minutes. Long enough to find a file, to examine it, to spot a fatal flaw.

Now, the surveillance Sabatine had orchestrated would take over. Every keystroke from her home computer, every call on her encrypted phone, every movement would be tracked.

The wait that night was excruciating. Anton didn’t sleep. He sat in the war room, watching the silent feeds from the various bugs and taps—a live map of Maya Li’s digital and physical life. For hours, nothing. Normal domestic traffic. A call to her husband about dinner. Some late-night work emails.

Then, at 1:03 a.m., her personal, hardened laptop—the one not issued by Rogers Industries—activated. A secure VPN tunnel was established. The destination was a server registered to a shell company in Luxembourg, a known relay for Silas’s communications.

Anton’s heart hammered against his ribs. He leaned forward.

On screen, a transcript, captured by a keylogger Sabatine’s team had implanted, began to scroll.

User ML: Greymalkin, a new curiosity. Hampshire server, file ‘Acoustic_Phase2_Finalspec.p*f.’ An error in the floor joist specs. Catastrophic if built. Looks like Rogers’s sentimentality may literally collapse around him. Poetic.

A pause. Then a reply from the other side.

User GT: Confirmed. The flaw is genuine. An opportunity. Will arrange for a demonstration. Your guidance, as always, is precise.

User ML: Ensure it’s untraceable. A tragic accident for a fading memory. It will break him.

The transcript stopped. The connection severed.

Anton sat back, the breath leaving his body in a cold rush. There it was. The proof. In her own words. The compass had pointed. She had identified the target, relayed it to Thorne (‘Greymalkin’), and sanctioned the attack. She had called his mother’s legacy a ‘fading memory.’ She had said it would break him.

The poisoned chalice had been drunk from, greedily. The risky plan, agreed to against his better judgment, had worked.

He felt no triumph. Only a vast, hollow cold, and a fury so absolute it was silent. He sent the single, pre-arranged code to Sabatine: Target acquired. Compass confirmed.

The enemy within was exposed. Now, it was time to dismantle her, and everyone she served. The strategy was a success. The cost was etched on his heart, but the war was now on his terms.

—

Chapter 131: The Dinner of Knives

The proof was digital, absolute, and devastating. But Anton wanted more. He wanted the confrontation. He wanted to see the mask slip in person, to witness the moment the traitor realized the game was over. He also needed to maintain the illusion of normalcy for the other two suspects—Vance and Vartan—until the net could be closed completely. And so, he devised his own piece of theatre: a dinner.

It was billed as a “strategic council,” a private, off-the-books gathering to discuss the post-Kijani landscape. The invitations went to Eleanor Vance, David Vartan, and Maya Li. A small, elite group. The inner circle, minus the known traitors. The irony was a private, bitter pleasure.

Sabatine, from his hidden vantage point in the city, monitored the preparations with a sniper’s focus. He had access to the penthouse’s security feeds, the guest list, even the menu. He saw the sleek table being set in the dining area adjacent to the main living space, the crystal and silver gleaming under low light. A stage was being set.

“It’s a risk,” Sabatine’s voice came through Anton’s earpiece, a tiny, private thread in the bustling quiet of the pre-dinner hour. “Having them all in one room. If Li panics…”

“She won’t,” Anton murmured, adjusting his cufflinks before a mirror. His reflection was calm, polished, a man in control. “She’s too disciplined. She’ll think this is a sign of my continued trust, my need for her counsel in a crisis. It will embolden her. And I want to see Vartan and Vance’s reactions. I need to be sure they’re clean.”

“Understood. I’ll be watching. Every twitch.”

The guests arrived within minutes of each other. Eleanor Vance, in a sharply tailored trouser suit, her gaze immediately drawn to the penthouse’s upgraded, visible security measures with a technician’s curiosity. David Vartan, oozing polished charm, complimenting the view, his eyes subtly assessing Anton’s demeanour for any sign of the strain the markets were speculating about. And Maya Li, arriving last, a vision of serene composure in a dove-grey dress, carrying a leather folio as if ready for a board meeting.

Anton greeted each with practiced warmth, the perfect host. The air was thick with unspoken tension, but it was the tension of a company under pressure, not of a trap about to spring. Wine was poured. The first course—a delicate scallop ceviche—was served.

Sabatine watched from multiple angles: the wide shot from a camera in a smoke detector, a tighter feed from a lens disguised in a piece of modern art. He saw the micro-expressions, the body language. Vance was engaged, leaning forward, talking about firewalls and penetration testing, her passion for her domain overriding corporate politeness. Vartan was performative, telling a mildly amusing story about a negotiating blunder in Stuttgart, his laughter a fraction too loud.

And Li. She was a sphinx. She listened, nodded, and offered the occasional, precise legal observation. She ate with small, neat bites. She was the picture of loyal, unflappable counsel.

The conversation, expertly steered by Anton, moved to the fallout from the Kijani withdrawal. He allowed a carefully measured display of frustration. “A strategic setback,” he called it, his jaw tight. “But it frees capital for other priorities. The Stuttgart acquisition is now our primary focus. David, your team’s work there has been exceptional.”

Vartan preened slightly. “Thank you, Anton. The Heisenberg family is sentimental, but they respect strength. Our revised bid shows both.”

Anton nodded, then turned his gaze to Li. “Maya, the regulatory approvals for the Stuttgart transfer—any hidden landmines? I don’t want another… surprise.”

Li took a sip of water, her movements economical. “The German authorities are thorough, but predictable. The paperwork is clean. The only potential delay would be a last-minute injunction from a minority shareholder, but our ownership structure is designed to prevent that.” She gave a thin, professional smile. “I’ve seen to it.”

I’ve seen to it. The words, so innocent, sent a chill down Sabatine’s spine as he watched. He saw nothing on her face but assurance.

The main course arrived—a herb-crusted rack of lamb, the smell of rosemary and garlic filling the air. As the plates were set, Anton smoothly shifted topics again, this time to a seemingly minor, administrative matter.

“While we’re on the subject of clean paperwork,” he said, cutting into his lamb, “Jessica flagged a minor anomaly in one of the legacy property servers. The Hampshire estate archives. Some kind of indexing glitch. Probably nothing, but with everything that’s happened, I’ve asked for a full forensic sweep of all non-core systems. A nuisance, but necessary.”

He delivered the line casually, as if commenting on the weather.

Sabatine watched the table on his screens, his own breathing stilled.

Eleanor Vance frowned. “Which server? I can have my team run a diagnostic, save the external auditors the billable hours.”

David Vartan waved a hand, his mouth full. “Bor-ing. Leave it to the lawyers and the geeks.” He laughed at his own joke.

Maya Li set her knife and fork down. Precisely. Parallel on the plate. Her hand, reaching for her wine glass, was steady. But Sabatine, zooming the camera in, saw it. The slightest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her right eye. A tiny, involuntary flutter of the muscle. It lasted less than a second. Then her face was a smooth mask again.

“A prudent step, Anton,” she said, her voice even. “Given the attempts on our digital infrastructure. I’ll coordinate with the external firm to ensure privilege is maintained. We wouldn’t want sensitive personal documents caught in a broad dragnet.”

Her response was perfect. Concerned, professional, protective. But the twitch had been there. The flinch at the mention of the Hampshire server, the specific system where the poisoned blueprint lay.

Anton, from his seat at the head of the table, had seen it too. He met Sabatine’s silent observation through the hidden lens, a minuscule flick of his own eyes acknowledging the tell.

“Thank you, Maya,” Anton said, his tone warm with gratitude. “I knew I could count on you to handle it discreetly. Some things are best kept out of the corporate spotlight.”

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of business talk and clinking silver. Sabatine continued to watch, but Li gave nothing else away. She was a master. But she had twitched. In the world of lies they inhabited, a single twitch was a confession.

After dessert and coffee, the guests departed. Vance left with a brisk nod, already thinking about servers. Vartan left with a slap on Anton’s back and a promise of “Stuttgart in the bag.” Li left last, her handshake firm, her gaze steady. “Get some rest, Anton. The path forward is clear.”

When the door closed on the last of them, the penthouse was silent. Anton stood in the foyer, the affable host vanishing from his face, leaving behind the cold, relentless hunter.

He didn’t move until Sabatine’s voice came through his earpiece. “She flinched. At the Hampshire mention. It was her.”

“I saw it,” Anton said, his voice a low growl. “The perfect lawyer. Right down to the micro-expression of guilt.”

“What now?” Sabatine asked.

“Now,” Anton said, walking towards the war room, the ghost of a ruthless smile on his lips, “we give her exactly what she asked for. We let her ‘coordinate the external audit.’ And we watch as she tries to erase the evidence. We’ll have her for treason, and for attempted destruction of evidence. We’ll bury her.”

The dinner of knives was over. The suspect had been narrowed from three to one, not by a process of elimination, but by a single, treacherous twitch. The trap had been sprung, not with a slam, but with the quiet setting down of a wine glass. The endgame had begun. And the enemy within, for all her composure, had just blinked.

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