15. Hostile Takeover
Chapter fifteen
Hostile Takeover
The glass walls of the botanical conservatory trapped the humid heat of the blooming orchids inside the venue, fighting off the bitter chill of late November. It was Friday night. The annual investor gala had finally arrived, bringing with it the night Warren planned to poison my tea.
I stood on the elevated wooden staging platform, staring out over the fifty guests mingling on the tile floor below.
A photographer navigated the tight clusters of fashion investors, the white glare of his flash illuminating the elaborate floral arrangements.
My swollen feet throbbed inside my formal heels.
I gripped the polished wooden edge of the podium, shifting my weight to find a momentary reprieve.
Arthur, our lead investor, separated himself from a group of executives near the bar.
He held a crystal champagne flute in his left hand and a wireless microphone in his right.
He tapped a silver dessert fork against the rim of his flute.
The sharp clink cut through the ambient chatter, echoing against the high glass ceiling.
“If everyone could gather near the stage, please,” Arthur said, his voice booming over the premium speaker system Marcus had wired earlier in the afternoon. “Mind the camera cables on the floor. I want to say a few words before dinner is served.”
The crowd naturally parted, forming a semi-circle around the base of the wooden platform.
Warren and Naomi stepped right to the front.
He wore a bespoke tuxedo, his shoulders set with arrogant confidence as he smiled for the nearest camera lens.
Naomi stood beside him in a sweeping silk gown.
She rested one hand over her stomach, playing the perfect, glowing mother-to-be.
Watching them preen in the spotlight made my stomach churn. They stood in the very center of the room I had paid for, soaking up the admiration of my colleagues. They believed this party was their ultimate coronation—that they were mere days away from burying me and seizing everything.
I kept my hands anchored on the podium, locking away the disgust. They didn’t realize they were standing in a cage.
“I want to raise a glass to Warren and Naomi,” Arthur said, turning toward the front row. “They have been absolute pillars for this firm over the last few months. Their dedication to stepping up while Juniper prepares for motherhood is a true testament to the strength of this company.”
The crowd applauded. The photographer snapped another rapid series of photos, the flash catching Warren’s bright smile.
Warren lifted his champagne flute toward Arthur, dipping his head in a flawless display of fake humility.
“Thank you, Arthur,” Warren said, raising his voice to carry over the clapping. “We are just doing everything we can to support my incredible wife during this transition.”
Naomi leaned into Warren’s side, linking her arm through his. She smiled at the surrounding investors, her eyes gleaming with manufactured warmth.
“Family always comes first,” Naomi said. “We are just so excited to welcome these two new babies into the world.”
I stared down at the two of them, the applause ringing against the glass ceiling, ready to finally tear their fiction to pieces.
I released the podium and stepped toward the center of the platform. Arthur stood near the edge, lowering his glass as he waited for the applause to die down. I reached out, wrapping my fingers around the sleek metal casing of the wireless microphone in his hand.
“I’ll take it from here, Arthur,” I said.
Arthur blinked, caught off guard by the interruption. He released the microphone, nodding awkwardly before turning away. He stepped off the wooden stairs, his shoes clicking against the tile as he retreated to blend into the sea of bewildered investors.
I stood alone at the front of the stage. For weeks, I had policed my own posture around Warren and Naomi. I had slouched my shoulders, touched my stomach, and played the part of the exhausted, trusting wife who couldn’t handle the strain of a fashion firm.
I dropped the act. I pulled my shoulders back and stood at my full height.
The relief was immediate. I gripped the microphone, letting the cold metal steady my nerves, and locked eyes with Warren.
He still wore that polished, camera-ready smile, waiting for me to deliver a weeping tribute to his devotion.
“The show is over, Warren,” I said, projecting my voice through the overhead speakers.
A shrill whine of feedback pierced the conservatory, silencing the remaining chatter. The heavy rustle of silk and wool rose from the floor as fifty wealthy guests shifted on their feet, turning their full attention to the stage.
“You and Naomi aren’t ‘pillars’ of anything,” I continued, making sure the words hit every corner of the glass room. “Except a conspiracy to steal my company and get rid of me.”
Warren’s practiced smile vanished.
The crystal flute slipped from his fingers. It hit the hard tile floor, shattering into dozens of glittering pieces near the hem of Naomi’s silk gown. Champagne sprayed across the toes of his polished dress shoes.
Naomi flinched away from the broken glass. The surrounding executives and investors gasped, taking a collective step back from the couple.
Warren looked around the room, reading the hostility in the crowd. His panicked mind scrambled for a new lie. He lunged forward, ignoring the broken shards, and planted his foot onto the bottom wooden stair of the stage.
“Juniper, what on earth are you talking about?” Warren demanded, his voice echoing in the expansive room without a microphone. “You need to step down from there. You’re clearly unwell.”
He held his hand out toward me, playing the role of the concerned husband trying to soothe a hysterical woman. It was the exact same trick he’d used to control me for the past year.
I did not take his hand. I did not step back.
“I am perfectly healthy, and I am wide awake,” I said, staring down into his eyes. “I know exactly what you two have been planning behind my back.”
I held my ground on the stage, letting the truth hang in the stifling air between us.
I raised my left hand, pointing directly toward the back of the humid conservatory.
Marcus stood behind the soundboard near the catering tables, his fingers poised over his laptop keyboard. He caught my signal and struck a single key. A harsh electronic crackle hissed from the suspended speakers bolted to the glass ceiling. The distortion snapped the remaining tension in the room.
The digital audio recording from my dining room table blared over the heads of the crowd. Marcus had scrubbed the file. He cut the graphic sounds of the affair, skipping straight into the post-coital gloating.
“So we move the timeline up immediately,” Warren’s recorded voice echoed against the conservatory glass, loud and arrogant. “I’ll slip the crushed pills into her tea on Friday night.”
Warren froze at the base of the stairs. He paled beneath the glare of the stage spotlight.
“Make sure her life insurance policy clears first,” Naomi’s recorded voice followed, crystal-clear and vicious over the speakers. “I want everything transferred to our accounts before the police even finish bagging the body.”
A woman in a sequined dress standing near the front row gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth.
The shock rippled through the crowd. The wealthy fashion investors and executives recoiled.
They shuffled hastily across the floor, backing away from Warren and Naomi, desperate to escape the monsters in their midst. In a matter of seconds, a wide circle of empty tile formed around the two of them.
They stood isolated in the center of the floor, surrounded by the disgusted stares of their peers.
I gripped the microphone until a dull ache dug into my palm, welcoming the pain. Their absolute ruin was playing out right in front of my eyes.
There was no spinning this. No gaslighting. My baby was finally safe.
I lifted the microphone back to my mouth.
“You signed a continuous audio release form for a documentary,” I said, my voice projecting over the murmuring crowd. “Every single word you said in that house belongs to me. And guess what? You confessed to plotting my murder.”
Warren snapped out of his shock. He lunged across the cleared space, his leather shoes scuffing against the floor.
The remnants of the shattered crystal flute crunched beneath his heels, grinding into dust. A strong smell of spilled champagne rose from the wet tiles, mixing with the heavy scent of the orchids.
He looked at the faces of the disgusted investors, his eyes wide and frantic. He searched the crowd for a sympathetic expression, but found only revulsion. His practiced confidence was unraveling. He couldn’t stomach the humiliation.
“This is a fabrication!” Warren shouted, throwing his arms out toward the crowd. “It’s deepfake audio created by a disgruntled employee to ruin our reputation!”
The fifty guests remained silent. No one believed the lie. They just stared at him.
Desperate for a new angle, Warren turned his attention back to me. He rushed the wooden stairs of the staging platform. He needed to reach the microphone, to rip it from my hands and spin a new story.
Before he could plant his foot on the bottom step, a tall figure emerged from the periphery.
Sebastian moved to the base of the stage. He had shed his casual producer persona. He wore a pristine, tailored suit, looking like a high-tier estate attorney.
Two large private security guards flanked him, moving in unison. Their thick boots thudded against the tile. They stopped at the bottom stair, entirely blocking his path to the stage.
“Step back from the stairs, sir,” one of the guards said, resting a hand on his utility belt.
Warren recoiled. He stumbled backward, his polished shoes slipping on the champagne puddle. He stared at the men blocking his path. He opened his mouth to argue, but fell silent.