Chapter 9 - The Meridian Summit
The Meridian Hotel rooftop lounge was an exercise in sterile, hollow luxury—glass walls that offered a panoramic view of a city skyline I now practically owned shares in, bathed in the neon blues and purples of artificial nightlife. The wind up here was fierce, whipping my tailored charcoal blazer against my ribs as I stepped out of the elevator.
Patricia sat at a secluded corner booth draped in shadows, her fingers nervously shredding a linen napkin. The sleek, designer clothes she used to wear like armor were now wrinkled and visibly outdated, relics of a past life when she spent my money to look the part. Gone was the smug, triumphant smirk she had worn on the courthouse steps six months ago. In its place was the hollow, desperate gaze of a cornered animal.
"You came," Patricia whispered, her voice trembling as I slid into the leather booth opposite her without waiting for an invitation.
"I have a very busy schedule, Patricia," I said evenly, signaling a waiter for a glass of sparkling water with a casual flick of my hand. "So let's skip the dramatic preamble. What could you possibly possess that would warrant pulling me away from my son on a Tuesday night?"
Patricia slammed a manila folder onto the table, the cardboard dog-eared and stained with what looked like coffee rings. "Brandon lied to you about the offshore accounts in the British Virgin Islands. He told you the forensic audit caught everything. He told you he was completely clean."
I didn't touch the folder. I simply leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, maintaining a gaze so devoid of warmth it made her visibly flinch. "Brandon was a C-level executive whose financial decisions were scrutinized by a team of forensic accountants who could find a missing nickel in a sandstorm. There were no offshore accounts, Patricia. We liquidated every subsidiary, every trust, and every personal holding down to his last pair of Italian leather shoes."
"Not this one," Patricia hissed, leaning forward, her eyes wide and manic. "He set it up under a shell corporation using his mother’s maiden name before we even met. It holds three point five million dollars in liquid capital—money he intended to use to ditch both of us if his schemes went south. But the bank froze the transfer codes when his credit rating cratered. He can't touch it. Without the master cryptographic key, the funds are locked in purgatory."
I took a slow sip of the sparkling water that had just been placed before me. The bubbles fizzed softly in the quiet tension between us. "And why are you telling me this? Why not hand it over to your beloved Brandon so he can buy you another overpriced handbag?"
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A bitter, ugly laugh escaped Patricia's throat. "Because Brandon spent the last of our grocery money on a cheap poker game last night and told me I was the anchor dragging him down. He’s a coward, Elena. He’s always been a coward. I want him destroyed. And I want out."
"So you’re selling him out for a safety net," I noted, my tone devoid of judgment, purely analytical. "What’s your cut?"
