Chapter 18 Amara
Amara
Corin’s still asleep beside me, one arm thrown across the pillow where my head was approximately thirty seconds ago.
We’ve been doing this every night now. The sex, I mean. Not the waking-up-at-ungodly-hours part. That’s a special brand of neurosis reserved exclusively for me.
The sex though? The sex is... well.
Let’s just say I now understand why people write poetry about physical intimacy.
Not that I’m writing poetry.
I’m a corporate litigator, not a romantic.
But if I were the poetry-writing type, there would definitely be stanzas about what Corin Saelinger can do with his hands and mouth.
Bot not right now.
Right now I’m wide awake because my brain has decided that 4:47 a.m. is the perfect time to obsess about shell companies and land deeds.
I slip out of bed as quietly as possible and pad down the hallway to the guest office. Corin set it up for my use when I agreed to stay at his private villa. It has a desk, an ocean view, and boxed documents I’ve been combing through like a woman possessed.
The coffee from last night is still sitting on the desk where I abandoned it, right next to a legal pad covered in increasingly unhinged annotations.
I take a sip of the coffee anyway because apparently self-respect is for people who sleep normal hours.
The next box is waiting for me next to the desk. It’s full of the kind of tedious financial records that would make most people weep with boredom.
Lucky for Corin, I’m not most people.
I pull out the next set of documents and spread them across the desk. I open up my laptop so I can perform any related online searches.
Then set to work.
I find the connection at 5:23 a.m.
The breakthrough comes from cross-referencing three sources: the old clinic documents in front of me, Delaware’s Secretary of State database currently on my laptop, and the Bahamas Financial Services Board registry that I’ve been refreshing so many times I’m probably on some kind of watch list.
The clinic documents from six years ago show Xavier funneling money through something called “Windward Solutions LLC.” That’s the paper trail. Actual signatures, actual dates, actual proof he touched the thing.
Delaware’s online database shows Windward Solutions LLC is owned by... another LLC. Coral Bridge Holdings. Because of course it is. Shell companies are like Russian nesting dolls, except boring and potentially criminal.
And here’s where it gets fun: Coral Bridge Holdings has the same registered agent as a Bahamian entity called Atlantic Cove Investments.
Which, according to the land purchase records I pulled from the Eleuthera Administrator’s office yesterday, is currently buying up coastal properties from islander families at predatory rates.
Same registered agent. Same mailing address. Same labyrinthine ownership structure designed to hide the man at the center.
In other words: Coral Bridge Holdings and Atlantic Cove Investments trace back to the Delaware holding company from six years ago, the same one that appears in Xavier’s original ledger entry, complete with his actual signature on the formation documents sitting right here in front of me.
The documents prove he built the structure. The databases prove it still exists. The land records prove he’s using it right now.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the prosecution would like to submit Exhibit Holy Shit.
I trace the connection three more times, just to be sure.
When I’m satisfied, I print out the relevant documents from the Delaware Secretary of State website and the Bahamas Financial Services Board. Then I gather up all the papers with shaking hands.
This is it.
The kill shot.
Not just proof that Xavier planted forged documents to frame Corin. But proof that he’s been running this con for years.
I practically sprint down the hallway to Corin’s bedroom, the papers clutched to my chest like a crazy person.
He’s still asleep when I burst through the door. The early morning light is just starting to filter through those ridiculous floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in soft gold.
Corin is sprawled across the bed, and the sheet has slipped down to his waist, so that for a moment I just stand there like a dumbstruck idiot, appreciating the view.
The broad shoulders.
The defined chest.
The trail of dark hair disappearing toward—
Focus, Counselor.
You have evidence to present.
“Corin.” I shake his shoulder. “Wake up.”
He makes a sound that’s half groan, half mumble, and pulls the pillow over his head.
“Corin!” I hiss. “I found it!”
That gets his attention. He emerges from under the pillow, his dark eyes blinking at me with adorable confusion.
“Found what?” His voice is thick with sleep.
I hold up the papers like they’re the Holy Grail. Which, honestly, they are. “The connections. Shell company A to shell company B to the Delaware holding company to the current land purchases. It’s all the same network. Xavier’s been running this scheme for six years.”
Corin sits up so fast I have to step back. The sheet pools beneath his hips and I very deliberately do not look down. “Show me.”
I spread the papers across the bed, and point out the trail I’ve traced.
Corin’s eyes are tracking the documents. “Atlantic Cove Investments...”
“Is the company that’s been buying land options on Eleuthera for the past eight months.” I can’t keep the triumph out of my voice. “Same beneficial owner structure. Same offshore registration patterns. Same Xavier Laurent, just with more layers of plausible deniability.”
He looks up at me. Those dark eyes are fully awake now, sharp and intense. “You traced all of this from the paper records?”
“The paper records, and the digital files your accountants sent, all cross-referenced with public corporate registries.” I shrug, trying to play it cool even though my heart is hammering excitedly. “Basic due diligence, really.”
“Basic due diligence,” he repeats. “Good girl.”
There it is!
What I was waiting for!
I blush.
The admiration in his voice.
The awe.
The “good girl.”
God, I’m practically doing cartwheels for a two-word compliment, and I’m not even pretending to be embarrassed about it.
Your Honor, the witness would like to note for the record that she has apparently developed the emotional complexity of a golden retriever who just successfully retrieved a tennis ball.
Look at me! I did the thing!
It’s pathetic, really. I have three Ivy League degrees.
And yet here I am.
God help me, I’m doomed.
“So.” I clear my throat. “We call a town meeting. Today, if possible. Invite Xavier. Invite the locals. We present the evidence, show the community exactly what Xavier’s been doing before he can cause any more harm, and let the chips fall.”
“If we invite Xavier, he’ll try to defend himself,” Corin comments.
“That’s precisely what we want,” she says.
“We’ll tell him it’s a community land development information session.
He’ll think he’s being given a platform to pitch his land deals to the islanders.
Maybe even think we’re legitimizing his acquisition plans.
He won’t be expecting us to present concrete evidence of his wrongdoing.
We’ll catch him completely off guard. In front of everybody. ”
Corin reaches for my hand. His grip is steady. “Let’s do it.”
The town meeting is held that afternoon at the same community hall where I gave my first land-lease workshop.
Feels like a lifetime ago. Back then I was just trying to help some islanders understand their contracts.
Now I’m about to publicly eviscerate a corrupt former board member in front of the entire community.
Career growth is wild, honestly.
Marisol helped us organize everything on short notice.
She sent word through her networks, contacted local officials, even arranged transportation for the poorer families.
When I asked if she was sure she wanted to host this, because Xavier Laurent is exactly the kind of man who retaliates against those who make him look bad, she just looked at me with those no-nonsense eyes and said, “That man tried to steal from my people. I want front row seats.”
I love her.
The hall fills up quickly. Local families, fishermen, shop owners, island officials. I spot the reporter from that first workshop in the back, notebook already open. Good. We want press. We want this on record.
I’ve set up my presentation materials at the front of the room. Overhead slides with the corporate registration documents. Printouts of the shell company connections. Written testimony from three families Xavier pressured into signing predatory agreements through “Atlantic Cove Investments.”
Corin is seated in the back row, deliberately unobtrusive.
This isn’t about him.
This is about the evidence.
About the community.
About justice.
Although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t acutely aware of his eyes on me.
I notice Thorne positioned against the rear wall, scanning the crowd with that focused intensity that used to unnerve me. Now it’s almost comforting. Keon is somewhere outside with the SUV. I caught a glimpse of him checking the exits earlier.
Xavier arrives fifteen minutes late. Typical power move. He strolls in like he owns the place, his silver-streaked hair perfectly styled, his expensive suit gleaming under the lights.
He takes an aisle seat in the third row, and shoots me a smile that makes my skin crawl.
Marisol calls the meeting to order. She keeps the introduction brief, then hands the floor over to me.
I take a deep breath. Center myself.
And then I begin.
“Good afternoon. My name is Amara Khan, and I’m a corporate litigator serving as legal counsel for the Saelinger Foundation’s community clinic pilot.
” I click to the first slide. “Over the past several weeks, I’ve been reviewing foundation documents as part of my work here. What I found concerns all of you.”