“I have filed emergency petitions for full custody due to her fragile mental state,” he finished, having already publicly dumped Brenda to paint himself as a repentant man desperate to reconcile with his wealthy wife.
“I can have him silenced, Alice,” Harrison said quietly.
I hadn’t heard him enter, but my father stood in the doorway of the library, leaning heavily on his silver-tipped cane with his eyes dark with violence as he looked at the television screen.
“One phone call to the regulatory boards and his venture capital firm loses its licensing by noon,” he suggested.
“His bank accounts can be frozen by two, and he disappears,” he added.
I watched Jacob’s televised crocodile tears, knowing that a month ago, in that courtroom, that performance would have sent me into a blinding panic attack.
I would have believed the world would side with him, but today, looking at the complex financial spreadsheets scrolling on my right monitor, I didn’t feel panic.
I felt a cold, expanding clarity and a surgeon’s clinical precision.
The terrified orphan who signed that prenuptial agreement was dead.
“No, Dad,” I said quietly, the word still feeling heavy and foreign on my tongue.
Harrison raised a thick, graying eyebrow.
“If you crush him from the outside with the corporation’s obvious muscle, he becomes a martyr,” I explained, my voice steady while tracing a line of data on the screen with my finger.
“He tells the world the big, bad billionaire stole his family, he writes a book, and he gains sympathy,” I continued.
“A narcissist thrives on attention, even negative attention,” I noted.
I swiped the financial data to the center screen, highlighting a specific, glaring red column.
“I’ve been auditing his firm using your intelligence network,” I said, leaning back in the leather chair.
“Jacob’s empire is a fragile house of cards built on ego,” I explained.
“He is currently heavily over-leveraged on the upcoming hostile acquisition of a tech firm,” I revealed.
“He needs exactly fifty million dollars in bridge financing by Friday, or his entire fund defaults, his investors riot, and he faces federal investigations for his hidden debt,” I said with a thin smile.
Harrison stepped further into the room, leaning his hands on the back of my chair, a spark of dangerous, unmistakable pride igniting in his icy eyes.
“And?” he asked, testing me.
“And I want you to authorize your syndicate to be the anonymous foreign entity providing that bridge loan,” I replied.
“You want to save his firm?” Harrison asked.
“I want him to think he’s won,” I corrected, my eyes locked on Jacob’s crying face on the television.
“I want him to feel invincible, I want him to sign the contract putting up his personal assets as collateral, and I don’t want you to build his gallows, Dad,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper.
“I want him to build it himself,” I concluded.
The trap was meticulously set, and the shadow shell companies funneled the fifty million dollars through three blind trusts, offering Jacob the exact lifeline he desperately needed.
But as I sat in the library late Thursday night, reviewing the final, weaponized clauses of the loan agreement Jacob was scheduled to sign the next morning, my breath suddenly caught in my throat.
