Chapter 12 - The Prequel on the Balcony
The audio was muffled at first, capturing only the harsh whistle of an Atlantic wind cutting through the historic district. On the screen, two figures stood near the edge of the eleven-foot drop.
Even through the grainy resolution, I recognized them instantly. My mother, Eleanor, and my sister, Taryn. They weren't fighting. They were talking in low, conspiratorial tones, their breath pluming in the cool night air like tiny ghosts.
I gripped the armrests of my chair so hard my knuckles turned white. Evan reached over, sliding his warm hand over my frozen fingers, gently prying them loose and interlocking his fingers with mine. His grip was an anchor in a rising tide of nausea.
*“She’s getting too close to the architectural patents,”* my mother’s voice hissed through the computer’s speakers, amplified and crisp thanks to an automated audio-enhancement filter. *“If the board signs off on her independent subsidiary tomorrow, she’ll control the entire southern portfolio. We’ll be left with nothing.”*
Taryn crossed her arms, pacing back and forth along the marble railing. *“And the audit? Mom, if she digs into the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, the federal investigators won’t just look at Dad. They’ll trace the wire transfers straight to our personal shopping accounts.”*
My mother stopped pacing. She turned her head slowly toward the drop, looking down at the hard stone courtyard far below, then back at Taryn. A cold, calculating smile spread across her face—a smile I had seen a thousand times across holiday dinner tables while she pretended to be the picture of maternal perfection.
*“Accidents happen during rehearsals,”* my mother said smoothly, her voice chillingly devoid of human warmth. *“A slip. A misstep in heels. Everyone knows she’s clumsy when she’s stressed.”*
*“And the sixty-two grand from her corporate account?”* Taryn asked, her voice dropping lower, though the microphone caught every syllable. *“We need that to cover the initial retainer for the new PR firm if the story blows up.”*
*“We take it the moment she hits the floor,”* my mother replied without missing a beat. *“While she’s unconscious in the trauma ward, her accounts are fair game under the emergency medical power-of-attorney clause. Nobody will question a grieving family moving funds to pay for experimental neuro-spine treatments.”*
The video cut to black.
The silence in my penthouse office was absolute. The city lights outside seemed distant, irrelevant, like a movie playing on a screen in another room.
I didn't cry. The tears for the family I never had were long since dried, burned out of me during those agonizing months learning how to walk again. What remained in their place was a cold, crystalline fury that felt sharper than any surgeon's scalpel.
"They planned it," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "It wasn't a sudden fit of jealousy. It wasn't just Taryn snapping under the pressure of wedding planning. It was a calculated corporate assassination. They wanted my designs, they wanted my company, and they wanted me dead."
Evan stood up slowly, pacing toward the window. The reflection of the Savannah skyline flickered in the glass across his tense shoulders. "The federal prosecutor told us the original sentencing was based on the evidence we recovered from the physical laptops. Conspiracy to commit corporate fraud and reckless endangerment resulting in bodily harm. But attempted premeditated murder?" He turned back to look at me. "That changes everything. That’s a life sentence without parole."
"And the metadata on this file," I added, my mind already racing through the digital footprints, "has a timestamp. It was uploaded to this server *three hours ago*. Which means someone else was holding onto it. Someone who watched them plan it, recorded it, and is now trying to use it."
"Use it for what?" Evan asked. "Blackmail?"
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed on the mahogany desk. It was an incoming call from an unknown, restricted number.
I looked at the screen, then up at Evan. He nodded once, stepping closer so he could hear the audio.
I swiped the green button and put it on speaker.
"Hello, Victoria," a distorted, synthesized voice crackled through the speaker. It sounded electronic, metallic, like a machine trying very hard to imitate a human being.
May you like
"Who is this?" I demanded, leaning toward the phone. "State your business or I trace this line right now."
A low, grating chuckle echoed through the phone. "You could try, my dear architect. But by the time your little algorithms bypass the proxy servers, I’ll be long gone. Besides... I don't think you want to hang up on me. Not when I'm the only person who can explain why your parents' prison sentences are about to be overturned on a technicality."
