“His firm is overleveraged on the upcoming NovaCore acquisition. He needs fifty million dollars in bridge financing by Friday or his fund collapses. Investors panic. Regulators investigate. Everything burns.”
Jonathan stepped closer.
“And?”
“And,” I said, watching Grant fake tears on television, “I want Meridian to be the anonymous syndicate offering that bridge loan.”
“You want to save him?”
“No,” I said. “I want him to think he has won. I want him to sign the agreement. I want him to put his personal assets, his penthouse, his cars, his firm, everything, up as collateral.”
My voice dropped.
“I don’t want you to build his gallows. I want him to build it himself.”
The trap was set.
Meridian’s shell companies funneled the fifty million through blind trusts, giving Grant the lifeline he desperately needed.
Late Thursday night, I sat in the library reviewing the final clauses of the contract he was scheduled to sign the next morning. Every paragraph had been sharpened into a blade.
Then pain sliced across my abdomen.
I gasped, dropping the stylus.
Another contraction hit, tightening around my spine like iron.
I wasn’t due for three weeks.
Then I looked down and saw water spreading across the expensive rug beneath my chair.
The baby was coming.
And Grant was about to sign.
“You need to be in the medical wing now,” Dr. Monroe said in the foyer, her voice tight as she checked my vitals. “Your contractions are five minutes apart.”
“I have an hour,” I breathed, gripping the marble console as another contraction tore through me.
“Maya,” Jonathan growled, pacing with his cane, “this is madness. I will send the lawyers. You are going to the hospital.”
“No,” I snapped.
Everyone froze.
I forced myself upright.
“He took my dignity in person. I am taking his life apart in person. Get the car.”
Forty-five minutes later, I stood outside the conference room at Grant’s corporate headquarters downtown.
I wore a tailored crimson maternity suit, my hair pulled into a severe knot. Pain radiated through my body, but fury held my spine straight.
Through the glass wall, I saw Grant.
He had just opened a bottle of champagne. His board was gathered around the table, laughing, clapping, celebrating.
“To the NovaCore acquisition,” Grant said, raising his glass. “And to the next billion.”
I did not knock.
I pushed open the glass doors and walked in, flanked by Meridian lawyers and security.
The laughter died.
Grant turned.
The color drained from his face.
“Maya?” he said. “What are you doing here? The press said you were on bed rest.”
He glanced around, already preparing the concerned husband act.
“Honey, you shouldn’t be here. The baby—”
“Do not take another step toward me,” I said.
He stopped.
I walked to the head of the table, breathing through a contraction, and placed my briefcase on the polished wood.
“I am not here for a reunion, Mr. Sterling,” I said. “I am here as Vice President of Acquisitions for the Meridian Global shadow syndicate. I am officially calling in your fifty-million-dollar bridge loan.”
Grant laughed, high and nervous.
“You can’t. The loan was funded an hour ago. The contract gives me five years.”
“Section Four, Paragraph B,” I said. “Immediate forfeiture of leveraged collateral in the event of pre-existing, undisclosed fiduciary fraud.”
His mouth opened.
“Fraud?” he stammered. “My books are clean.”
“Your books are fiction.”
I tossed another folder onto the table.
“Our accountants found the four million dollars you embezzled from client pension funds to pay Vanessa’s debts and keep your lifestyle afloat.”
The boardroom erupted in whispers.
Grant staggered back.
