Chapter 26 #2
“This is the story you will all tell, under oath, should you be summoned to testify,” I state.
It’s not a suggestion. It’s an order. “You will commit perjury. You will present a unified, unshakable front. Your stories will align perfectly, because my office will be preparing your depositions for you.”
Chao lets out a choked, incredulous laugh. “You’re insane. You want us to lie to the Feds? They’ll tear us apart.”
“They will tear one of you apart,” I counter, my voice like ice.
“They will not tear all four of us apart, telling the exact same story, especially when it’s backed by medical records my team will ‘discover’ detailing Mr. Vance’s pre-existing heart condition.
The Feds will be left with a case that is, at best, a he-said, she-said.
And they do not take weak cases to trial. ”
I lean back in my chair, the picture of calm confidence. “That is what you will do for us. Now, here is what Mr. Wolfe will do for you.”
This is the hook. The part where I use Jasper’s own playbook against them.
“In exchange for your unwavering loyalty and your testimony, your families will be protected. Permanently. Your substantial shares in the newly formed company are guaranteed in perpetuity. You will walk away from this not just free men, but very, very wealthy men.” I let a beat of silence pass before I deliver the final, unspoken part of the deal.
The stick that accompanies the carrot. “The alternative, of course, is that you take your chances with the federal government. And with Mr. Wolfe’s… disappointment.”
"And you don't need to worry about their star witness," I add, my voice dropping into a low, confidential murmur that is far more threatening than a shout. "Trust that he will be taken care of. Very shortly."
The implication hangs in the silent, velvet-draped room, as heavy and lethal as a loaded gun on the table.
I see the understanding—and the terror—dawn in their eyes.
The fight goes out of them. I see it in their shoulders, the way they slump back into their chairs, the resignation in their eyes.
They are trapped. I have offered them the only viable path to survival. They know it.
Morrison nods slowly, his face ashen. “You’ll draft the statements?”
“They’re already drafted,” I say, sliding a slim folder across the table. “You have five minutes to sign.”
They don’t bother hesitating. When it’s all said and done, I feel a chill running up my spine.
I stand up. The meeting is over. I have won. For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel a surge of pure, unadulterated power. It's an addictive thrill.
I walk out of the Rhapsody Lounge and into the cold night air, feeling more alive than I have in months.
The feeling lasts until I get back to the penthouse.
He is waiting for me.
He’s standing in the middle of the living room, a dark silhouette against the glittering city lights.
The moment I step out of the elevator and into the private foyer, I feel it.
A rage so cold and so absolute it changes the temperature of the air.
This isn’t the resigned anger he showed his father.
This is a visceral, personal fury, and it is aimed directly at me.
“Where were you?” he asks. His voice is dangerously quiet.
I close the door behind me, my heart starting a slow, heavy drumbeat of apprehension. I square my shoulders. I will not be cowed. Not now.
“I was handling a problem,” I say, my voice steady. I walk past him and set my purse down on the console table. “The executives. I met with them. I secured their testimony. They’re going to perjure themselves and back a story that Vance died of a heart attack. The Feds’ case is dead.”
I turn to face him, a triumphant, challenging look in my eyes. I am expecting… I don’t know what I am expecting. Reluctant approval? A grudging respect?
What I get is a predator stalking toward me.
He closes the distance between us in three long, silent strides. He doesn’t stop until he’s invaded my personal space, forcing me to tilt my head back to look up at him. His face is a mask of cold fury. His eyes are black pits.
“You did this,” he says, his voice a low, lethal growl, “without asking me.”
The accusation hangs between us. The air crackles. The triumph drains out of me, replaced by a surge of defiant anger.
“You were busy,” I retort, my chin jutting out. “And it needed to be done. I saw a problem and I solved it. I thought that’s what you wanted. Someone who could think like you.”
“What I want,” he snarls, his hand shooting out to grip my upper arm, his fingers digging into my flesh like talons, “is to not have to second-guess every single move made in my own goddamn organization. You went behind my back, Olivia. You made deals on my behalf. You acted as if you run this company.”
“I’m the one who stood up to the Feds! I am the one who just neutralized their only viable witnesses!” I fire back, trying to twist out of his grip, but he’s impossibly strong.
“You are the one I had to bleed for five days ago!” he roars, his control finally snapping.
He shoves me backward, and I stumble, catching myself against the wall.
His face is inches from mine, his eyes blazing with a raw, possessive fury I have never seen before.
“My father put a gun to your head, and I put myself in front of it. I took a beating to keep you breathing. And your response is to go behind my back and start your own side operation? Did you think for one second what would have happened if it had gone wrong? If one of them had been wearing a wire? You didn’t just risk yourself, you risked everything! ”
“I was careful!” I scream, my voice raw with the frustration and fear and rage of the last week. “You can’t stand that I made a move on my own, that I didn’t come crawling to you for instructions!”
“You belong to me!” he bellows, his fist slamming into the wall right beside my head. The impact shudders through my bones. “Your moves are my moves! Your decisions are my decisions! I own your loyalty. I own your safety. I own you!”
The words hit me harder than his fist ever could. The raw, brutal truth of his perception of our relationship, laid bare in the middle of our screaming match.
All the fight suddenly drains out of me, replaced by a cold, devastating calm. I stop struggling. I look him straight in the eye, my own gaze unflinching.
“Is that what I am, Jasper?” I ask, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “After all of this?”
He stares back at me, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched, the fury in his eyes warring with something else, something I can’t quite name. The question hangs between us, the one, true question that has been lurking in the shadows since the day I met him.
He doesn’t answer.
He simply turns, his face a mask of stone, and walks away. I hear him speak to his driver in the foyer, his voice a low, clipped command. Then the heavy front door of the penthouse closes with a soft, final click.
And he is gone.
Not just from the room. A check of his closet confirms it. He didn’t just leave the argument. He left the city. He left me.
For the first time in months, I am alone.
Truly, utterly alone. No invisible leash of his presence wrapped around my throat. The rage was so profound, his sense of betrayal so complete, that he has severed the connection entirely. He has cut me loose.
For the first day, I do nothing. I sit on the sofa, staring at the cityscape, a glass of his expensive whiskey sweating in my hand. My mind is a blank, white field of static. The question of what he must think of me—disloyal, reckless—is too painful to contemplate.
On the second day, a new thought begins to form, a dangerous, seductive whisper in the silence.
I could run.
The idea is so stark, so simple, it takes my breath away.
There is a fortune in untraceable bearer bonds in the safe, a parting gift for my "loyalty" after the Meridian acquisition. I have a passport with a new name, courtesy of his own forgers, tucked away for an emergency that was always meant to be his emergency, not mine. I could walk out that door right now. I could be on a flight to a country with no extradition treaty by morning. I could disappear. I could call Agent Jennings, take the deal she’d offered.
I could trade my testimony for a new life.
A life of fear, yes, but a life of freedom.
The old Olivia would have done it. She would have seen this as a miracle. A divine intervention. A last, desperate chance to claw her way back to the light.
But the old Olivia is dead.
Running now isn’t freedom.
No. I will not run. I will wait.
On the third day, the test I didn't know I was waiting for arrives.
My personal cell rings, a number I don’t recognize. I answer, my voice cautious.
“Sutton.”
“Olivia? It’s David Morrison.” The CFO. His voice is a thin, reedy thing, frayed with panic. “We need to talk. Not on the phone.”
My entire body goes still. The static in my mind vanishes, replaced by a cold, diamond-hard clarity. “What about?”
“The Feds,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “They brought me in again. They’re squeezing me, Olivia. They know something. They’re offering me full immunity. For me, for my family. They want everything.”
The first link in the chain is about to snap.
“I need to meet you,” he says, his words tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. “The Mid-City Grill. One hour. Just to talk. Please.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, my voice a calm, steady counterpoint to his hysteria. I hang up the phone.
I stand and walk to my closet. I choose a black dress.
I take a taxi to the restaurant. The driver makes small talk. I respond with polite, empty phrases.
Morrison is already there, tucked into a corner booth. He’s aged ten years since I saw him in The Nocturne. His face is pale and slick with sweat. His hands tremble as he lifts a glass of water to his lips.