Chapter 43
Dominic's hands didn't shake as he buttoned his shirt, but I could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the only tell that he was about to destroy everything his family built.
"You should eat something," Patricia said from the doorway. She'd been here since three AM, when the phones finally stopped ringing and we'd all collapsed into chairs, staring at screens that kept refreshing with new speculation, new theories, new lies.
"I am not hungry." Dominic's fingers moved to his cuffs. The silver links—his father's, probably, everything in this goddamn penthouse was his father's—caught the early light.
I pushed off the wall where I'd been standing for the past twenty minutes, watching him transform into the version of himself that faced cameras and boards and shareholders. "Patricia's right. You need—"
"What I need," he said, still not looking at either of us, "is for both of you to stay here when I leave."
"Yeah, no." I crossed to the coffee table where Patricia had laid out printed copies of his statement. The words blurred together, but I'd already memorized them. Every admission. Every crime. "We talked about this."
"We did not reach an agreement."
"Because you don't get to make this decision alone."
He finally turned. His eyes were bloodshot, but his voice stayed level, controlled, the way it always did when he was barely holding on. "Sloane. Please. The photographers outside—they already have pictures of us together. If you walk into that building with me, you become part of the story. You lose any chance of—"
"Of what? Hiding?" The laugh that came out of me was sharp enough to cut. "They already know who I am. That headline last night made sure of that."
Patricia's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then at us. "The car will be here in thirty minutes."
"Send it away," Dominic said.
"No." I stepped closer, close enough to see the fine lines around his eyes that hadn't been there a month ago. "You don't get to do this alone. That's not how partnerships work."
things were different now in his face. Not surrender, exactly, but the kind of exhaustion that comes from fighting a battle you know you've already lost. "If you stand beside me today, they will tear you apart. The board, the press, everyone who wants to see me fall—they will use you to do it."
"Let them try."
Patricia cleared her throat. "For what it's worth, she's right. Trying to protect her now will only make it worse. They'll say you're hiding her. That she's complicit." She paused, her lawyer brain clearly working through scenarios. "But if she's there, if she faces them with you—it changes the narrative."
"I do not care about the narrative." Dominic's voice dropped, that quiet intensity that meant he was about to say something true. "I care about her."
The words hit like a fist to the sternum. I wanted to close the distance between us, to touch him, to prove that I was real and here and not going anywhere. But Patricia was watching, and in thirty minutes we'd be in front of cameras, and I needed to hold onto whatever composure I had left.
"Then trust me," I said. "Trust that I can handle this."
His jaw worked. For a long moment, he just looked at me, and I could see him calculating, weighing, trying to find an angle that would keep me safe. Finally, he nodded once. Sharp. Definitive.
"Okay."
Patricia's phone buzzed again. "The car's early. We should go."
The Ashford Industries headquarters looked different in the early morning light—less like a monument to corporate power and more like a mausoleum, all glass and steel and cold reflective surfaces that showed you back to yourself, distorted.
Photographers lined the entrance. At least thirty of them, maybe more, cameras already raised and flashing before our car even stopped.
"Jesus," I muttered.
Dominic's hand found mine in the space between us. His palm was warm, steady. "Stay close to me. Do not answer any questions. Patricia will handle—"
"I know the drill." I squeezed his fingers once, then let go. "Let's get this over with."
The driver opened the door. Sound crashed over us—shouted questions, clicking cameras, the general chaos of too many people trying to get too close. Dominic stepped out first, his face already arranged into that blank corporate mask. I followed, and the volume doubled.
"Mr. Ashford! Is it true you're confessing to fraud?"
"Sloane! Are you James Chen's daughter?"
"Is Richard Ashford's death connected to—"
Patricia materialized beside us, her body angled to block the worst of the crowd. "No questions until the press conference. Please clear a path."
Security guards formed a corridor. We moved through it, Dominic's hand hovering near my back but not quite touching, that careful distance he always maintained in public. Except everyone had already seen the photo from last night. Everyone already knew.
Inside, the lobby was quieter but no less tense. Employees stood in clusters, their conversations dying as we passed. I caught fragments—"can't believe he's actually going through with it" and "my stock options are worthless now" and "I heard the SEC is already here."
The elevator ride to the top floor felt like descending into deep water, pressure building with each floor.
"The board is already in the conference room," Patricia said, checking her phone. "Marcus arrived twenty minutes ago with his lawyer."
"Of course he did." Dominic's voice was flat. "He wants a front-row seat."
The elevator doors opened. Morrison was waiting in the hallway, his FBI badge clipped to his belt where everyone could see it. He nodded at Dominic. "Ready?"
"No." Dominic straightened his tie. "But that is not relevant."
Morrison's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "For what it's worth, this is the right move. The truth usually is."
"We will see."
The conference room doors were already open. Inside, I could see the board members arranged along one side of the long table, their lawyers beside them. Marcus sat at the center, his expression carefully neutral. On the other side, rows of chairs had been set up for press—every seat filled, cameras on tripods in the back, reporters with recorders already running.
This wasn't a press conference. This was a trial.
Dominic paused at the threshold. I felt him take one deep breath, then another. Then he walked in, and I followed, and every eye in the room tracked our movement to the podium at the front.
Patricia took her position to Dominic's left. I stood to his right, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Close enough that every camera would catch us together.
Marcus leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. Watching.
Dominic pulled out his prepared statement, but he didn't look at it. Instead, he looked directly at the cameras, at the reporters, at the board members who'd spent the last month trying to destroy him.
"Thank you for coming," he said. His voice carried across the room, steady and clear. "I am here today to tell you the truth about Ashford Industries, about my father, and about the foundation this company was built on."
A reporter in the front row leaned forward. The room went silent except for the soft whir of cameras.
"In 1987, my father, Richard Ashford, stole a patent for adaptive learning software from a man named James Chen. He used his connections and his money to bury Chen's claim, to destroy his reputation, and to build this company on technology that was never his." Dominic's hands gripped the edges of the podium, but his voice never wavered. "When Chen's sister, Catherine Chen, discovered evidence of the theft and threatened to expose it, my father had her killed."
The room erupted. Reporters shouted questions, cameras flashed, board members started talking over each other. Marcus's lawyer stood up, but Marcus pulled him back down with a sharp gesture.
Patricia stepped forward. "Please hold your questions until Mr. Ashford has finished his statement."
The noise died down, but the energy in the room had changed. Predatory. Hungry.
Dominic continued. "I have known about the theft for three years. I have known about Catherine Chen's murder for six weeks. During that time, I said nothing. I did nothing. I allowed this company to continue profiting from stolen work, from blood money, because I told myself that protecting Ashford Industries was more important than the truth." He paused, and for the first time, I saw his mask slip. Just for a second. Just long enough for everyone to see the man underneath. "I was wrong."
My nails dug into my palms. I wanted to reach for him, to anchor him, but I kept my hands at my sides and my face neutral.
"Effective immediately, I am transferring fifty percent of my personal shares in Ashford Industries to the Chen family as restitution. I am also establishing a fund to compensate other inventors whose work may have been stolen or suppressed by this company. And I am resigning as CEO, effective at the end of this press conference."
The room exploded again. This time, Patricia didn't try to quiet them. She just stood there, her face carefully blank, while reporters screamed questions and board members argued and Marcus sat perfectly still, his eyes locked on Dominic with an expression I couldn't read.
Dominic raised his voice. "I am not asking for forgiveness. I am not asking for understanding. I am simply telling you what happened, and what I am doing to make it right. That is all."
He stepped back from the podium. The questions came faster, louder, overlapping until they were just noise.
Then Marcus's lawyer stood up. He was a thin man with silver hair and a smile that made my skin crawl. "Mr. Ashford, before you leave, I think the board has something to say."
Dominic went very still. "The board can say whatever they want. I am done."
"Not quite." The lawyer pulled out a folder, making a show of opening it slowly. "You see, your confession today, while very moving, has put the board in a difficult position. We have a fiduciary duty to our shareholders, and your admission of criminal knowledge makes you a liability we can no longer afford."
"I am resigning," Dominic said. "What more do you want?"
"We want justice." The lawyer's smile widened. "Which is why the board is formally pressing charges against you for conspiracy to commit fraud, obstruction of justice, and accessory after the fact to murder. We've already been in contact with the district attorney's office, and they're prepared to—"
"Actually," Morrison said, stepping forward from where he'd been standing against the wall, "I think we need to pause this conversation."
The lawyer frowned. "I'm sorry, who are you?"
Morrison pulled out his badge. "Special Agent Morrison, FBI. And I have some federal warrants I need to execute before we go any further."
The room went dead silent.
Morrison gestured to three agents I hadn't noticed standing near the back. They moved forward, and Morrison pulled out a document. "Marcus Ashford, you're under arrest for securities fraud, wire fraud, and embezzlement. Theodore Brennan, same charges. Victoria Hastings, you're under arrest for conspiracy to commit securities fraud and obstruction of justice."
Marcus didn't move. Didn't even blink. But his lawyer went pale.
"This is absurd," Brennan sputtered, half-rising from his chair. "You can't just—"
"I can, actually." Morrison nodded to his agents. "We've been investigating the board for six months. Turns out, when you start digging into Marcus's embezzlement scheme, you find all sorts of interesting connections. Offshore accounts. Shell companies. A whole network of fraud that makes Richard Ashford's patent theft look almost quaint."
Victoria Hastings stood up slowly, her hands shaking. "I want my lawyer."
"You'll get your phone call." Morrison's voice was almost gentle. "But right now, you need to come with us."
The agents moved in. Marcus finally stood, his movements careful and controlled, even as they cuffed his wrists behind his back. He looked at Dominic, and for just a moment, something flickered across his face. Not anger. Not even surprise. Just a kind of weary resignation, like he'd always known this was how it would end.
"You think this makes you better than me?" Marcus said quietly. "You think telling the truth absolves you?"
Dominic met his gaze. "No. But it is a start."
They led Marcus out. Brennan was shouting about his rights, and Hastings was crying, and the remaining board members were trying to distance themselves, talking over each other about how they'd had no idea, how they'd suspected something was wrong but had no proof, how they'd always thought Marcus was too aggressive in his business dealings.
The reporters were going insane. Cameras flashed so fast it looked like lightning. Questions came from every direction, a wall of sound that made it impossible to think.
Then one voice cut through the chaos. "Ms. Whitley!"
I turned. A woman in the third row stood up, her recorder raised. "Are you James Chen's heir? Are you Catherine Chen's daughter?"
Every camera swung toward me. Every reporter went quiet, waiting.
Dominic's hand found mine. Squeezed once. Then let go.
I stepped forward to the microphone.
"Yeah," I said. My voice came out steadier than I expected, even though my heart was trying to punch through my ribs. "I'm Catherine Chen's daughter. James Chen was my grandfather."
The questions started again, but I kept talking, my voice rising over them.
"My mother was murdered because she tried to tell the truth about what Richard Ashford did. She died because she believed that some things mattered more than money, more than power, more than protecting a legacy built on lies." I looked directly at the cameras, at all the people watching from wherever they were. "I'm accepting the restitution Dominic offered. Not for myself. I'm using it to establish a foundation in my mother's name—for families affected by corporate fraud, for whistleblowers who lose everything when they speak up, for anyone who's been told that the truth isn't worth the cost."
I turned, found Dominic in the crowd of faces. He was watching me with an expression I'd never seen before—something raw and open and completely unguarded.
"Some things matter more than money," I said, still looking at him. "My mother knew that. And so do I."
The room erupted again, but this time it felt different. Less predatory. More like the sound of a story shifting, changing shape, becoming something new.
Patricia touched my elbow. "We should go. Before they regroup."
But before we could move, another reporter stood up. This one was older, with gray hair and the kind of face that had seen too many press conferences, too many scandals, too many lies dressed up as truth.
"Mr. Ashford," he called out. His voice was rough, tired. "One more question."
Dominic turned back to the podium. "Yes?"
The reporter's eyes were sharp, calculating. "Your father's death was ruled a heart attack. But given what you've revealed today—the murder, the fraud, the decades of corruption—do you think he was murdered too?"
The question hung in the air like smoke. Every camera focused on Dominic's face. Every reporter leaned forward, waiting.
And Dominic opened his mouth to answer—