Page 48 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
“We need more than scandal," I say. "We need motive and method. If we can prove Derek used blackmail to manipulate a foundation’s funding or falsify a political tie, anything federal, we don’t just burn him in the press. We get legal firepower."
"So we trap him in the truth," Sienna adds. "And not just any truth, the kind that burns bridges he can’t rebuild."
Rosenthal turns back to her screens, fingers flying. "Give me ten minutes. If Claudia ghosts the mirror without detection, I’ll find the hook. Something admissible."
I rise, pacing now. "What about the foundation grants? If he siphoned donor money into his private accounts…”
"Then we’ve got fraud. Possibly RICO if we connect it to shell companies."
The room shifts. Purpose sharpens everything. A plan forms between us in real time. We expose Derek’s funneling of funds from nonprofit accounts into international holdings. Wetrace the digital breadcrumbs to a series of shell corporations registered in fake names. We deliver the whole thing, with timestamps, authorizations, and encrypted messages, to the investigative journalist Jack trusts. And then we walk into court, not with hearsay, but with a digital smoking gun.
To ensure full coverage, Rosenthal starts building two parallel dossiers, one for prosecution, one for the press. One will trigger the media storm. The other, if we’re lucky, opens a legal case federal prosecutors can’t ignore.
I grab a legal pad, flipping to a blank page just to have something to hold. There’s ink smudged on the corners of my fingers. I hadn’t even realized I’d been writing, names, timelines, arrows connecting foundation dollars to Derek’s shell firms like I’m drawing a map out of hell. My handwriting is uneven. My thoughts sharper than they’ve been in weeks.
Behind me, Sienna dials a contact she hasn't spoken to in two years, a white-collar litigator who once took down a hedge fund mogul with a single subpoena. They exchange cold pleasantries, then get to work outlining what it would take to initiate discovery. It’s all code and legalese, but the intensity in Sienna’s voice makes it clear: we’re not bluffing.
Rosenthal’s screen flashes. Claudia has delivered the mirror. The files start downloading, silent, fast, damning. The loft falls quiet except for the hum of machinery. Outside the windows, Manhattan stretches in a river of neon and blur. Inside, time feels suspended, held together by code and caffeine and sheer willpower. My lungs tighten.
Then the buzzer sounds.
Sienna moves instinctively, but Rosenthal stiffens. "We didn’t buzz anyone in."
I stand. "Do you have security?"
"Cameras only. No guards."
The monitor by the door flashes.
A man stands on the stoop. Hat pulled low. Face obscured.
Rosenthal frowns. "That’s not one of ours."
Sienna checks her phone. "No one from our side pinged this location. This isn’t friendly."
I don’t move. He tilts his head toward the camera with a subtle precision that makes my stomach tighten. It’s too intentional, too pointed, he wants us to see him. This isn’t just a visit. It’s a calculated signal, one meant to unsettle. A warning without words.
"Lock the door," I say quietly.
Rosenthal presses the lock with a sharp, decisive movement. The surveillance feed vanishes from the screen, replaced by an empty flicker of static. In an instant, the tenuous lead we thought we had evaporates, replaced by the creeping certainty that we’ve just been outmaneuvered. Our advantage is gone. We’re vulnerable now, and worse, Derek is no longer playing catch-up. He’s waiting.
Rosenthal’s voice slices through the tension. “We need to finish the upload. Whatever happens next, this data has to live somewhere safe.”
Sienna grabs her bag and unzips a secondary drive. “Backup protocol?”
“Encrypted triple-mirror. I’ll upload one to a secure offshore vault, one to a local ghost server, and one to an air-gapped machine I’ll physically relocate tonight.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “We’re staying ahead of him. Even now.”
But even as I say it, my eyes flick back to the door. The silence isn’t passive. It’s watching.
Rosenthal’s hand hovers an inch above the keyboard, just a beat too long. Her jaw tightens, only slightly, but I see it. She’s rattled. And if Rosenthal’s rattled, we’re closer to the edge than I want to admit.
It knows we’re close to burning everything down. And I wonder if that’s what Derek fears most, three women, one plan, and the resolve to dismantle his empire piece by piece. Not this time.
The monitors blink again. Static. Then darkness. Rosenthal swears under her breath and reboots the surveillance feed. Nothing. Just black. For a second, no one speaks.
Sienna moves to the blinds, adjusting them just enough to peer through. “He’s gone.”
