“Bottom line,” Phil said, tapping the folder, “you have everything you need to redirect the narrative.”
“And Falkirk? Where are those documents?”
Phil produced another folder. A fresh, clean, untraceable set of audit documents for Elion, meant only for Falkirk’s eyes—numbers that would never cross Emma’s, Jennifer’s, David’s, or Kevin’s desks. Clean for them, but potentially very messy for me if things went sideways.
I stared at the folder for a long moment, Emma’s voice still echoing in my mind.“I love you.”
Phil’s expression shifted—something like understanding, something like warning. “She’s going to find out eventually,” he said. “About everything you’re doing for her.”
“I’ll take that risk.”
Phil leaned back, studying me. “You’re really gone, huh?”
“She’s mine,” I answered.
He didn’t deny it. He didn’t question it. He just nodded like the outcome had always been inevitable. “Then let’s finish this.”
I nodded once—quick, curt. “The money’s already in your account.”
Phil pulled his phone, thumb swiping. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, wolfish and satisfied. “Pleasure doing business with you, Holt.”
And just like that, he was gone.
No goodbye.
No warning.
Just a gust of air and a shifting shadow—like a ghost slipping out of the world as seamlesslyas he’d entered it.
I leaned back for one moment, letting the engine hum through me before shifting into drive.
Time to move.
The streets blurred past in clean, sharp lines—office buildings reflecting the early morning sun, traffic lighter than it would be an hour from now. My focus stayed locked, my grip steady on the wheel.
The press had thinned out last week after my two-week statement. That pause was the only reason Emma had been able to walk into work without being mauled by cameras. But now that the deadline was approaching?
They were back.
In swarms.
By the time I reached Falkirk’s front drive, the sidewalk was a sea of microphones, camera lenses, and shouted questions—reporters pressing against barricades security had nearly given up maintaining.
When I pulled in, they swarmed.
“Mr. Holt!”
“Is Elion being audited?”
“Is the breach confirmed?”
“Is Emma Sinclair stepping down?”
“What is Falkirk’s position on—”
Security rushed forward, forming a loose wedge, but I lifted a hand.
I got out.
