“Die before Friday, Dominic. The money moves faster when you stop breathing.” My fiancée whispered that into my ear, kissed my forehead, and walked away believing I was trapped inside a coma—but I was awake, listening to every word, and the only person who realized something was wrong was the maid everyone else treated like furniture.

The silence in the boardroom was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The audio recording looped once, playing Veronica’s icy whisper into the room before Grace tapped her phone to stop it.

Anthony was sweating profusely, loosening his silk tie with a trembling finger, while the board members stared at Veronica with expressions of sheer disgust and disbelief.

"Well, Veronica," I said, breaking the silence as I slowly walked around the table toward her. "It turns out my breathing is remarkably persistent. And my memory is even better."

"You can't prove anything!" Veronica snapped, her voice rising into a frantic, hysterical pitch as she dropped all pretense of grief. The mourning veil slipped from her head, hitting the floor unnoticed. "That recording was edited! It's a deepfake! You're a paranoid monster, Dominic, and everyone in this city knows it!"

"Is that right?" I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a thick manila folder, tossing it onto the table directly in front of her. "Feel free to check the exhibits. Exhibit A: Bank records of a five-million-dollar wire transfer originating from your personal Swiss offshore account to the exact shell company used by Vanguard Asset Protection—the same security firm that cut the brake lines on my Bentley."

Veronica stared at the folder as if it were a venomous snake.

"Exhibit B," I continued, pacing slowly behind her, "is a signed confession from Senator Thomas Vance, detailing how you and he conspired to eliminate me before Friday midnight so you could seize control of my personal trusts and fund his gubernatorial campaign."

The blood drained completely from Veronica's face. She staggered backward, her stiletto heel catching on the edge of the heavy rug, causing her to stumble against the conference table.

"You... you ruined me," she whispered, her voice cracking with pure venom.

"No, Veronica," I replied coldly, stopping just inches from her. "You built a trap, loaded the spring, and stepped right into the center of it. I merely held the door open."

I turned my gaze toward the terrified board members, who were watching our exchange with wide eyes.

"Effective immediately," I announced, my voice echoing authoritatively across the room, "all proxy voting rights held by Anthony Moretti are revoked. Furthermore, Veronica Hale's engagement is officially terminated, her access to any Moretti assets is permanently frozen, and her name is scrubbed from every foundation and corporate entity we own."

Anthony raised a trembling hand. "Cousin... what about... what about the family restructuring?"

I paused, looking down at my cousin with utter contempt. "You're going to pack your desk, Anthony. And by Monday morning, you will catch a one-way flight to our vineyards in Sicily, where you will spend the next ten years managing grape harvests without access to a single corporate credit card. If you ever set foot in Manhattan again, I won't bother with a car crash. I'll handle you personally."

Anthony swallowed hard and nodded frantically, too terrified to utter another word.

I turned back to Veronica. Two of my security guards stepped forward, standing on either side of her, their hands resting firmly on their belts.

"Escort Ms. Hale out of the building," I instructed quietly. "Make sure her designer bags are thrown out into the lobby trash bins where they belong."

As Veronica was led out of the boardroom—screaming obscenities, kicking her heels, and clawing uselessly at the air—the heavy double doors slammed shut behind her, sealing her fate once and for all.