Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 31279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 125(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
Something inside me snaps—the last fraying thread of patience and years of swallowing what I should have screamed.
In two strides, I’ve crossed the space between us. My hand fists his collar and slams him back against the edge of his ridiculous mahogany desk. A picture frame rattles. His eyes widen for a split second before the arrogance slides back into place.
“You don’t get to talk to her like that,” I snarl. My knuckles tremble with the effort it takes not to hit him. “You don’t get to poison what’s left of this world and dress it up as business. You don’t get to lie to me about saving lakes while you’re the one killing them.”
He doesn’t flinch. “You’re making a fool of yourself, Everett. This tantrum might play well in the tabloids, but it won’t save your—what is she, exactly? Charity case? You’ve always had a soft spot for strays.”
I shove him harder, the fabric of his suit bunching beneath my hands. “She’s the reason I thank God I’m not like you,” I bite out. “She’s the reason I still have something left worth fighting for.”
Ariel’s voice cuts softly through the static in my ears. “Everett.”
Just my name, but it’s enough. The rage stutters, and I step back, releasing him, chest heaving.
He casually smooths his collar. “There it is,” he says, voice dripping with contempt. “Emotion. You’ll never survive in business with that bleeding heart of yours.”
I glare at him, my pulse still hammering. “Then maybe business isn’t what I want to survive in. You think this is a game I can’t win,” I say, surprising myself as a welcome calmness settles over me. “But I don’t have to win. I only have to call a press meeting and tell the truth.”
My father smirks. “You can’t prove a story you invented.”
“Actually,” Kara says from the doorway, “we can.”
We all turn. Kara steps in, holding a tablet in one hand and a folder so thick it may have gravitational pull in the other.
“I’ve been watching you for a while,” she says to my father, almost polite. “Last quarter, your ‘soil amendment’ subsidiary started placing orders that didn’t match any project timelines—too much volume, too fast, at odd hours. Meanwhile, small spills surged up around inlets you’ve been courting for new contracts. I assumed incompetence. Then I looked closer.”
He laughs, but I can hear the uncertainty in it. “You looked closer, Kara? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I’m the person you employed to protect this company’s interests, even if it meant protecting it against you,” Kara says coolly. “As I was saying, I looked closer. Used drones. Thermal, night-vision. I witnessed dump runs at two a.m. into protected coves. The same trucks showing up on both your shell company’s invoices and the ‘independent’ contractor rosters for cleanup. I have emails, Ev,” she says, glancing at me with an apology in her eyes.
“This was the ‘project’ you were working on,” I state, remembering interrupting her the other day.
She nods, and her expression softens. “I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything before. I wanted to be sure, considering who was behind it.” Her eyes harden as they return to my father. “He approves the spending, then bills the cleanup at a premium while calling it community service. He manufactures crises to sell salvation.”
My father’s face freezes before morphing into fury. “You are out of your depth, little girl.”
Kara opens the folder and fans out glossy prints like cards—license plates, timestamps, metadata glinting under the office lights. “The Attorney General’s Environmental Crimes Task Force will decide what it shows,” she says. “I sent them copies an hour ago. They’re in the lobby.”
“Those pictures will show legal waste transfers. The emails will show nothing unusual,” he splutters. “You have no idea what you’re accusing me of.”
A brief knock on the door precedes the entrance of two agents and a uniformed officer with rain on his hat brim. They say names and agencies, voices neutral and professional, and then the words every crime like this requires: we have a warrant.
My father’s laugh is an icy bark. “You’re making a mistake,” he says to them. “This is a board-level dispute.”
“This is an evidence-level situation,” the older agent says, stepping past me to hand over the paperwork. “We’ll let the board know where to send your counsel.”
For a second, I think he’ll run. Then the reality of his mistakes closes in around him. He turns to Kara and snarls, “Why?”
“Because I care about the water,” she answers, and the simplicity of it fills my chest with fierce pride. “Because you forgot what the company is for.”
They read him his rights. He listens, impatient and tight-lipped, eyes flicking over the room like a trapped animal.
As they step him out, he turns to me. “You think you’ve won something,” he says. “But all you’ve done is burn the inheritance that would’ve kept you warm into old age.”