Chapter 101
Chapter 101:
“We need to issue a statement p>
The double doors opened.
Skye Sterling rolled in. She wasn’t walking—her ankle was sprained from the crash—so she sat in a sleek, modern wheelchair pushed by Harper Quinn. But she didn’t look like an invalid. She looked like a monarch on a mobile throne.
She wore a white suit, sharp and pristine. A bandage was visible on her forehead, a badge of honor.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Skye said. Her voice cut through the noise.
“Skye!” Arthur stood. “You… you shouldn’t be here. You’re injured p>
“I’m alive, Uncle,” Skye said coldly. “Which is more than Victor intended p>
“This is a misunderstanding,” Arthur pleaded, glancing at the shareholders. “My son has a drinking problem, but he’s not a murderer p>
“The forensic reports say otherwise,” Skye said. She slid a folder across the long table. “Cut brake lines. Premeditated. And then the ramming p>
“You’re destroying this family!” Arthur shouted. “Airing our dirty laundry to the press! The stock is tanking because of you p>
“The stock is tanking because the heir apparent is a homicidal maniac,” Skye corrected. “But I have a solution p>
She pulled a document from her lap.
“A hostile takeover?” Arthur laughed nervously. “You don’t have the capital p>
“I do,” Skye said. “Or rather, my partner does p>
The doors opened again. This time, they didn’t just open—they were kicked.
Alistair Thorne walked in.
He wore a black trench coat that swirled around his ankles. He was flanked by four men who looked like they ate concrete for breakfast. The security guards at the door were already on the floor, groaning.
The boardroom fell silent. Alistair Thorne didn’t attend board meetings. He attended executions.
𝖱𝖾𝘢d𝘦𝗿 с𝗼𝗆𝗺u𝗻i𝘁y 𝗈n 𝘣𝗲.сo𝗆
“Mr. Thorne,” Arthur squeaked. “You have no right p>
Alistair ignored him. He walked to the head of the table, pulled out a USB drive, and jammed it into the projector.
The screen lit up. A video played. It wasn’t dashcam footage. It was high-angle surveillance, grainy but clear, pulled from a DOT traffic camera perched on the highway overlook. It showed the truck waiting. It showed the ramming. It showed the intent.
“Victor Sterling,” Alistair said, his voice a low rumble. “Not only a murderer. But a thief p>
He clicked a button. Bank records appeared.
“He’s been siphoning Sterling Media funds to pay off gambling debts in Macau. Five million dollars p>
The shareholders gasped.
“And,” Alistair added, gesturing to the door, “I found him p>
Two of Alistair’s men dragged a figure into the room. It was Victor. He was muddy, bruised, and weeping. He had been caught trying to board a fishing boat at the docks.
“Dad!” Victor screamed. “Help me! They beat me p>