Chapter 7
Charles’s jaw dropped in absolute disbelief as he stared at Dante, then at Beatrice.
“Give my shares to her?” Charles shrieked. “She’s an auditor! She doesn't own anything!”
“She owns you right now, Charles,” Dante said, his expression completely unreadable.
Beatrice felt a surge of adrenaline coarse through her veins, a feeling of power she had never known.
For years, men like Charles had pushed her into corners, making her feel small and insignificant.
Now, he was squirming in front of her like an insect pinned to a board.
“I won't do it,” Charles spat, though his voice lacked conviction. “It’s corporate extortion!”
“It’s restitution,” Beatrice corrected him, taking a step forward.
“You stole millions from clients, used the firm as your personal piggy bank, and harassed staff for years.”
“If you go to trial, you’ll serve fifteen years in a federal penitentiary,” Dante added coldly.
“If you sign over the shares, you walk away with your freedom, though completely bankrupt.”
Charles looked around the room, searching the faces of his wealthy friends for help.
Every single one of them turned their backs on him, refusing to meet his desperate gaze.
They were businessmen; they knew a dead man walking when they saw one.
Slowly, reluctantly, Charles dragged himself over to his desk and pulled out a fountain pen.
His hands shook so badly he could barely unscrew the cap.
Dante produced the legal transfer documents, pre-drafted by his attorneys during the drive over.
Charles signed his name at the bottom of each page, the scratch of the nib sounding like a death knell.
When he finished, he threw the pen onto the desk and collapsed into his chair, looking aged by ten years.
“Get out of my home,” Charles whispered, staring at the floor in utter defeat.
Beatrice picked up the signed documents, her fingers brushing the crisp paper.
She was no longer just an underpaid employee hiding in the back elevators.
She was now a major shareholder of Wilkes & Hart Financial Services.
“Pack your things from the office tonight, Charles,” Beatrice said, her tone icy and authoritative.
“Because if I see you near the forty-second floor tomorrow, I’ll have security throw you out.”
Dante offered her his arm, a faint, proud smile gracing his sculpted features.
Beatrice placed her hand gracefully on his sleeve, and together they walked toward the private elevator.
As the doors closed on Charles’s ruined life, Dante looked down at her.
“How does it feel to take back your power, Beatrice?”
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“It feels like a start,” she answered, her heart racing. “But this isn't over, is it?”
“No,” Dante admitted, his eyes darkening. “The person who authorized Victoria wasn't Charles.”
