Chapter 3 - Wolves in the Boardroom
Z
By eight-thirty the following morning, the executive boardroom on the fortieth floor of Crosswell Tower was buzzing with anxious whispers. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, illuminating the polished mahogany table where twelve members of the board sat in tense silence.
Grant Cross stood at the head of the room, looking every bit the grieving yet resolute visionary. His dark hair was impeccably styled, his charcoal Tom Ford suit tailored to perfection. Beside him, Celeste sat with her hands folded neatly over an alligator-skin briefcase, offering solemn nods of gratitude to each board member who offered their condolences.
"Thank you all for coming on such impossibly short notice," Grant began, his voice carrying the exact tremor of restrained sorrow he had practiced for years. He placed both hands on the edge of the podium, bowing his head for a dramatic three seconds. "As most of you know, my beloved wife, Evelyn, suffered a catastrophic vehicular accident yesterday morning. While we are grateful to God that she survived the physical impact, the neurological trauma is... severe."
A murmur of distress rippled through the room. Arthur Vance, our oldest board member and a lifelong friend of my late father, leaned forward with a heavy scowl. "Grant, the press release this morning stated she was stable. What exactly is her prognosis? Does she recognize her family?"
Celeste dabbed at a nonexistent tear with a lace handkerchief. "She called Grant by her brother's name, Arthur. She doesn't know what year it is. She barely understands where she is. The doctors believe the frontal lobe damage may be permanent."
"It breaks my heart to say this," Grant continued, smoothly picking up the narrative, "but Crosswell cannot afford to drift aimlessly while competitors circle our patents. We have three federal contracts pending signature by noon. If our leadership remains vacant, the Department of Defense will pull the modular clinic initiative, destroying fifty percent of our valuation overnight."
Grant tapped the tablet embedded in the podium, projecting a high-resolution scan across the massive wall monitors. It was the document Celeste had brought to my hospital room: the certificate of absolute medical incapacity, bearing Dr. Leah Morgan’s forged signature and an official-looking hospital seal.
"Under Section 4 of the Crosswell Founder’s Trust," Grant announced, his voice gaining strength and authority, "in the event of permanent cognitive incapacitation certified by the attending chief of neurology, the voting rights of the founder's sixty-two percent stake automatically transfer to the surviving spouse as acting Chief Executive Officer."
Arthur Vance adjusted his reading glasses, staring intently at the screen. "This is highly irregular without a forty-eight-hour waiting period, Grant. Evelyn’s father specifically designed the bylaws to prevent rushed transitions."
"Arthur, with all due respect to Evelyn’s father, the company wasn't facing a fifty-million-dollar default when those bylaws were written in 2012," Grant snapped, a flash of his real, arrogant temperament breaking through his polished exterior before he quickly softened his tone. "I am doing this to protect my wife’s legacy. Not to dismantle it. I move for an immediate confirmation vote to transfer executive authority and ratify the emergency operating protocols."
"I second the motion," chimed in Marcus Sterling, the chief financial officer, who had received a quiet wire transfer from Nevada only six hours prior.
"All those in favor?" Grant called out, a triumphant smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth.
Before a single hand could rise, the heavy oak double doors at the back of the boardroom clicked open.
The sound was sharp, echoing off the glass walls like a gunshot.
The entire room turned.
Jonah Price pushed a high-backed wheelchair through the entrance. I sat upright, wearing a tailored black suit over my chest brace, my dark hair pinned back flawlessly to expose every visible bruise and laceration on my face. My eyes were clear, sharp, and focused directly on my husband’s pale face.
Beside me walked Detective Bennett in full uniform, accompanied by two federal agents from the Securities and Exchange Commission and Crosswell’s general counsel, Sarah Lin.
"Before you call the vote, Grant," I said, my voice cutting through the dead silence with absolute clarity, "you might want to verify whether the founder is actually dead."
The color drained from Grant’s face so rapidly he looked like a corpse standing under the spotlights. His hands gripped the edges of the podium so hard his knuckles turned white. "Evelyn... what is this? You should be in the ICU. You are critically confused—"
"I have never seen things more clearly in my life," I interrupted, gesturing for Jonah to wheel me to the opposite end of the table. "You told the board my frontal lobe was damaged. You told them I couldn't remember my own name. But I remember the exact angle of the wire cutters you used beneath my sedan yesterday at five in the morning."
Celeste shot up from her seat, her alligator briefcase clattering against the mahogany table. "Security! Get this woman out of here! She is experiencing post-traumatic psychosis! Look at her, she’s hysterical!"
"Sit down, Celeste," Detective Bennett commanded, resting her hand firmly on her duty belt. "Nobody moves from this room."
Sarah Lin stepped forward, pulling a gold flash drive from her jacket and plugging it directly into the master AV terminal. "Mr. Cross, the document you just projected onto those screens is a fraudulent instrument. Dr. Leah Morgan is currently downstairs giving a sworn deposition to the District Attorney's office confirming that her signature was forged. Furthermore, Mrs. Cross has never relinquished her voting rights."
"This is an internal corporate dispute!" Grant stammered, his polished veneer completely shattering into wild, frantic panic. He looked around the table, desperately searching for allies. "Marcus! Tell them! We have the authority under the emergency charter!"
Marcus Sterling kept his head down, staring at the table, refusing to make eye contact.
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"Let’s look at the real charter, shall we?" I said, nodding toward Sarah Lin.
The wall monitors flickered, replacing the forged medical evaluation with a high-definition video feed from Jonah Price's dashcam, followed immediately by an encrypted banking audit ledger that lit up the room in stark, condemning red lines.
