The air inside smelled of stale coffee and expensive leather.

Ten board members sat around the mahogany table, their faces grim.

Celeste sat at the far end, flanked by her attorney, a man named Henderson who refused to meet my eyes.

She wore a tailored gray suit, her hair pulled back into a tight, flawless bun.

But her fingers were trembling as she held her pen.

I sat at the opposite end of the table, with Arthur beside me.

“We have reviewed the forensic audits,” Arthur announced, laying a thick manila folder on the table.

The sound of the paper hitting the wood was loud in the silent room.

“For three years, Celeste Vaughn Whitmore used shell companies to funnel funds from Eleanor Whitmore’s clinics,” Arthur said.

Celeste didn’t look up.

“She was aware of the falsified fertility records,” Arthur continued. “And she used that knowledge to blackmail my client into maintaining her marriage.”

“That is an outrageous accusation,” Henderson said, though his voice lacked conviction.

“We have the wire transfers, Henderson,” I said, speaking for the first time.

My voice was quiet, but it filled the room.