“With the grand larceny charges looming, they are looking for any excuse to cut him loose to save the stock price.”

“This video is the final blow,” I said.

The elevator reached the basement garage, where Julian’s black sedan was waiting, its engine idling.

The driver pulled out into the midday traffic, navigating the slick, grey streets toward Midtown.

The corporate headquarters of Whitlock Luxe occupied the top three floors of a sleek glass tower on Madison Avenue.

When we arrived, the lobby was unusually quiet, the security guards whispering among themselves.

We took the express elevator straight to the thirty-fifth floor, where the boardroom sat behind double glass doors.

Through the glass, I could see the board members gathered around the long mahogany table.

Bennett was already there, his tie loosened, his face flushed a deep, angry red.

His lawyer stood behind him, frantically sorting through a stack of legal briefs.

Celeste Monroe sat at the far end of the room, her designer handbag resting on the table like a shield.

She was not looking at Bennett; her gaze was fixed on her reflection in the dark glass window.