Page 47 of The Founder's Power

And that makes me smile.

* * *

It’s nearlymidnight when I walk through her door. She gave me the code and a key not that long ago.

The place is dim and quiet. A lamp burns near the window, casting a warm glow over her bare shoulders and tousled hair. She’s curled up on the couch in a worn sweater, her legs tucked beneath her, a book in her lap she’s not reading.

Her eyes meet mine the second I step in.

I close the door behind me and exhale, shoulders dropping for the first time in hours. “It’s done,” I say.

Isabelle sets the book aside and rises. “You talked to him?”

“I confronted him.” I rake a hand through my hair, still buzzing from the adrenaline. “Told him I saw through the whole thing and that I wasn’t going to play the game on his terms anymore.”

She walks to me slowly, cautiously, like I might still be untouchable. “And?”

“He didn’t back down,” I say, voice low, “but I think I unnerved him. He didn’t expect me to face him alone. He expected a press release. A lawyer.”

Her brows knit. “So what happens now?”

“I forced him to delay the vote,” I say. “Bought us forty-eight hours. Enough time to rally the board and get Braithwaite’s silent partners to lean on Veridian Holdings.”

Her hand slides into mine. “And after that?”

I look down at our joined hands. My voice is rough. “I don’t know.”

“You look like you haven’t breathed since you left,” she whispers.

I press my forehead to hers. “I haven’t.”

She wraps her arms around me, and I let her. I let myself lean just a little. I let myself believe that I truly am not fighting this war alone.

But even with her in my arms, the storm hasn’t passed. Vincent’s not done. I can feel it. Men like him don’t retreat. They regroup.

“I hate that this is our life right now,” she murmurs, “that he gets to steal time from us.”

I nod. “So do I.”

But as I hold her, my heart steadying, I know that whatever move Vincent makes next, whatever fire he tries to light, she’s my anchor now, and I won’t let go.

CHAPTER24

DAMIAN

The numbers don’t lie.

That’s the first thing I feel—numb clarity.

I’m in my private office, lights low, Clara standing a few feet away, a grim line etched across her face. She’s the one who brought it to me. It’s not an accusation. It’s worse. It’s proof.

Invoices routed through a shell firm. Licensing data accessed outside approved channels. Confidential memos tagged with metadata that traces back to Naomi’s secure login redirected to an address Vincent Grey used six years ago during the Halcor bid.

Every line of code, every stamp of access… it’s all there.

Naomi Bellerose betrayed me.

“I triple-checked before I brought it to you,” Clara says, her voice a quiet knife. “I wanted to be wrong.”

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