THE MUSIC BOX MILLIONAIRE

Charles stared at the court documents in Margaret's hand as if they were venomous.

"Asset seizure?" he whispered. "You can't do that. I need access to the corporate accounts to pay payroll tomorrow!"

"Payroll is already handled," David announced through the speakers. "Mom and I spent all day yesterday moving the legitimate employees—the ones who actually do the work—under a new subsidiary controlled by Whitfield Heritage. Their jobs are safe. Their pensions are safe."

Mr. Sterling let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for ten minutes. "Thank God."

"The only thing left in Whitfield Development Group," David continued, "is you, your fake ledger, and sixty-five million dollars in criminal debt."

Charles sank to his knees in the middle of the luxurious dining room. The guests who had cheered for him twenty minutes ago now looked down at him with disgust.

"You planned this," Charles choked out, glaring at the webcam. "You sat there in the hospital, pretending to be weak, while you plotted to destroy me."

"I didn't plot anything," I said, my voice steady and calm. "I just stopped protecting you from your own consequences."

Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the private room. The double oak doors swung open.

Three uniformed police officers and a plainclothes detective stepped into the room.

"Charles Whitfield?" the detective asked, scanning the crowd.

Charles didn't move.

"Stand up, Mr. Whitfield," the detective ordered, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "You're under arrest for grand larceny, criminal forgery, and wire fraud."

Savannah scrambled backward, trying to hide behind the investors.

"And Savannah Blake?" the detective added, looking at a notepad.

Savannah shrieked as an officer grabbed her arm. "No! I'm a victim! He tricked me!"

"You can explain that to the judge," the officer said, snapping the cuffs on her wrists.

As they hauled Charles to his feet, he looked back at the table. At the scratched, wooden music box sitting next to his half-empty glass of bourbon.

"Eleanor!" Charles yelled as the police dragged him toward the door. "Eleanor, I'm sorry! I love you! El, please!"

His voice faded down the hallway, echoing against the marble floors of the Wellington Grand, until the doors swung shut.

The room was painfully silent.

Margaret carefully picked up the music box, snapping the lid shut.