Chapter 61

POV: Liam

​The rain in Westchester didn't fall; it hung in the air like a cold, grey veil. I sat in the idling car at the end of a long, gravel driveway, staring at the stone facade of a house that had once felt like a second home. This wasn't the Sterling Tower. There were no cameras here, no tactical teams, and no red-lining stock tickers. There was only the smell of wet pine and the crushing weight of a legacy that was currently being dismantled by the woman I loved.

​Isabella’s televised "fracture" had hit the airwaves twenty minutes ago. She hadn't just attacked Eleanor; she had pointed a finger at the 2018 logs—at my family’s involvement. She had made us both targets.

​I stepped out of the car, the gravel crunching under my boots. I didn't head for the Vane estate yet. First, I had to secure the only vote that mattered.

​The front door opened before I could reach the knocker. Thomas Halloway stood there, dressed in a thick wool cardigan, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He was the man who had taught me how to read a balance sheet before I was ten. He was the man who had just voted to strip my chairmanship.

​"You shouldn't be here, Liam," Halloway said, his voice as dry as old parchment. "The board has already issued a non-communication directive. I’m a witness in the SEC inquiry now. Talking to you is a liability."

​"You’ve never cared about liabilities, Thomas. You care about the Sterling name," I said, stepping into the warmth of the foyer without an invitation. "And right now, that name is being dragged through the mud because Eleanor Vane is using you as a shield."

​Halloway sighed and led me into the study. The room smelled of old books and woodsmoke. It was a room of quiet power, the kind that didn't need a skyscraper to assert itself.

​"Eleanor provided documents, Liam," Halloway said, sitting in a leather wingback chair. "Digital signatures from 2018. Your father’s private seal on the marrow-interface authorizations. What was I supposed to do? The investors are screaming for blood. I had to give them a direction to point the blade."

​"The signatures are faked, Thomas. Or rather, they’re manipulated. My father was in a coma for the last six months of 2018. He couldn't have signed a grocery list, let alone a medical override."

​Halloway paused, the glass halfway to his lips. "The logs are time-stamped, Liam. They’re encrypted with the Sterling Master Key."

​"A key that Eleanor had access to through the merger’s shared server," I countered, leaning over his desk. "She’s been planning this for years. She didn't just want the merger; she wanted a fall guy. She wanted someone to take the blame for the 'forced recovery' protocols when the truth eventually leaked. And she chose me because she knew Isabella would never forgive me if she thought I was the one who authorized her pain."

​Halloway looked away, his eyes fixed on the dying embers in the fireplace. "It doesn't matter if it’s true, Liam. In the world we built, perception is reality. The DOJ doesn't care about a 'shared server' theory. They care about the name on the bottom of the page. And that name is Sterling."

​"I'm not here to save my reputation, Thomas. I'm here to save the girl."

​"Isabella Vane is a hurricane," Halloway said. "She just went on national television and called for the dissolution of the company. She’s not looking to be saved. She’s looking to burn it all down."

​"She’s looking for justice," I said. "And she’s doing it because she’s alone. If the board continues to follow Eleanor’s lead, they’re going to help her finish the job. They’ll liquidate the assets, the labs will close, and the medical tech that’s keeping her alive will be auctioned off to the highest bidder. She won't survive the transition."

​I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, encrypted thumb drive—the real audit files I’d recovered from the deep-archive.

​"Everything is on here," I said. "The proof that my father’s signature was used post-mortem. The evidence that Eleanor moved Vane debt into Sterling accounts. If you stand with me, we can flip the board. We can remove Eleanor for cause and put the company into a blind trust overseen by a neutral party."

​Halloway looked at the drive as if it were a live grenade. "If I do this, I’m admitting that the board was negligent. I’m inviting a decade of litigation."

​"You’re already in the litigation, Thomas. The only question is whether you want to go down as Eleanor’s accomplice or the man who stopped her."

​The room was silent for a long time. The only sound was the rain lashing against the window and the crackle of the fire. Halloway picked up the drive, his hand trembling slightly.

​"I can't give you the chairmanship back, Liam. That ship has sailed. The market won't accept you."

​"I don't want the chair," I said. "I want the board to abstain from the 'Biological Reclamation' vote tomorrow morning. I want Isabella to stay under my legal protection as her spouse until the court can appoint a neutral guardian."

​"The board won't agree to that," Halloway said. "Not after her speech tonight."

​"They will if they know the alternative is a RICO indictment," I said. "Talk to the other directors, Thomas. Tell them what’s on this drive. Tell them the war isn't over; it’s just changing fronts."

​Halloway stood up, his face set in a grim line. "I’ll talk to them. But I’m not making any promises, Liam. You’ve put us all in a very dangerous position."

​"I didn't put us here," I said, heading for the door. "We’ve been here since 2014. We just finally stopped pretending the floor was solid."

​I walked back out into the rain. My heart was thumping against my ribs, a dull, heavy beat. I had lobbied my mentor, but I knew it wasn't enough. Eleanor wouldn't wait for a board vote. She was a woman who moved when the world was sleeping.

​I got back into the car and drove toward the Vane estate gates. I could see the lights of the manor through the trees—a sprawling, gothic monster of a house. I pulled up to the security kiosk, the guards stepping out with their umbrellas.

​"Mr. Sterling," the guard said, his voice tight. "We have orders from Ms. Vane. You aren't permitted on the grounds."

​"I'm not here as the CEO," I said, leaning out the window. "I'm here as a husband to check on my wife. If you block me, I’ll call the Westchester PD and report a kidnapping. I have the marriage license and a medical proxy that hasn't been legally revoked by a judge yet. Do you want to be the one to explain to a sheriff why you're holding a woman against her will?"

​The guard hesitated. He looked at his partner, then back at me. He knew the legal gray zone I was operating in. He also knew that if he let me in, Eleanor would fire him by morning.

​"Just five minutes, sir," he whispered, pressing the button to open the gates. "Don't make me regret this."

​I drove through, the gravel flying under my tires. I didn't head for the front door. I knew Eleanor would be there, flanked by lawyers. I headed for the service garage at the back of the estate.

​I parked the car and stepped out, the shadows of the garage swallowing me. I moved toward the back entrance, my eyes fixed on the windows of the study where I knew the broadcast had taken place.

​I saw her then.

​Isabella was standing on the balcony above the garage, her silhouette sharp against the interior light. She looked like a ghost, her pale skin almost translucent in the rain. She was staring out at the woods, her hands gripping the railing.

​"Isabella!" I called out, my voice a low, urgent rasp.

​She looked down. For a moment, she didn't move. She just watched me, her eyes wide and unreadable. I could see the fear in her, the cold, jagged terror of a woman who had just burned her only bridge and realized the water was rising.

​"Liam?" she whispered.

​"I'm here," I said. "I'm not leaving you."

​The cliffhanger wasn't my arrival. It was the sound that came from inside the house—the sharp, unmistakable shatter of glass and the raised voice of Arthur Vane.

​"She’s gone!" Arthur screamed from the balcony next to hers. "The bypass triggered! She’s not responding to the sync!"

​I looked at Isabella. Her hands had let go of the railing. She was staring at her own palms, her body beginning to tremble with that high-frequency vibration I had felt in the clinic.

​"Liam," she gasped, her voice sounding like a distorted recording. "It’s... it’s happening again. The remote command. I can't... I can't feel my hands."

​I began to climb the trellis, my fingers digging into the wet wood. I didn't care about the board, or the stock, or the signatures. I only cared about reaching her before the machine took over.

​