Chapter 7 - The Dawn at Boardroom Zero
The limestone facade of the Blackwood Industries tower loomed against the pale, bruised sky of dawn like a monument to corporate tyranny.
Journalists and camera crews still milled around the main plaza, braving the freezing morning chill, waiting for the next explosive headline about the family collapse. But we didn't use the revolving glass doors at the front entrance.
Jordan parked the town car directly in the underground secure loading bay, using his executive clearance card to glide past the security checkpoint without a single question asked.
Inside the private elevator, none of us spoke.
My mother stood between Jordan and me, dressed in a heavy wool coat we had grabbed from the facility lounge, her posture straight despite the exhaustion etched deep into her face. The silver pocket watch rested safely inside her pocket, its digital cargo holding the undeniable proof of thirty years of corporate fraud, blackmail, and systematic erasure.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open directly onto the fortieth floor—the executive penthouse suite where the board of directors held their closed-door sessions.
The grand mahogany double doors leading into the main boardroom were closed, muffled voices filtering out through the thick wood.
We walked down the quiet, carpeted hallway. As we approached, a pair of private security guards stepped forward, crossing their arms to block our path.
“Miss Blackwood,” the lead guard said firmly, though his eyes flickered with clear hesitation as he recognized Jordan standing beside me. “You’re not authorized to enter. The emergency board session is currently in progress. Your voting shares have been temporarily suspended pending a legitimacy review.”
“Step aside, Miller—or whatever your corporate alias is today,” Jordan said, stepping into the guard’s personal space with an intimidating authority that made the man flinch. “If you touch either of them, you’ll be sharing a prison cell with Camille by noon.”
Before the guard could respond, I reached out and pushed the heavy mahogany doors wide open.
The chatter inside the grand boardroom cut off instantly.
Twenty pairs of expensive, judgmental eyes snapped toward the entrance. At the far end of the long obsidian conference table sat Richard Blackwood, looking older, grayer, and smaller than I had ever seen him, flanked by his highest-ranking legal counsels and corporate officers.
And sitting right beside him, wearing a sharp designer suit with an expression of triumphant arrogance, was Helena Vale.
Helena stood up slowly, a cold, predatory smile curving across her lips.
“Well,” Helena purred, her voice echoing off the vaulted glass windows overlooking the city. “Look who decided to show up to her own execution. Did you really think playing detective in the upstate woods would save your little company, Zoe?”
Richard Blackwood slowly raised his head, his tired, bloodshot eyes fixing on me. Then, his gaze drifted past my shoulder—and landed directly on the woman standing beside me.
The color drained entirely from my father’s face.
He gripped the edge of the obsidian table so hard his knuckles turned ghostly white, his mouth parting in a silent, suffocating gasp.
“Isabella...” Richard choked out, his voice a broken whisper that barely carried across the silent room.
May you like
Helena whipped around, her triumphant smile vanishing in a single, terrifying second as she stared at the ghost she thought she had buried forever.
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