Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sloane
The morning begins with the smell of expensive coffee and the low, rhythmic rumble of Vane's voice as he dictates a hostile takeover while I stand beside him. It ends with the cold, biting snap of steel against my wrists.
I am standing at the copy machine when they arrive. Not the "observers" or the board members, but six men in dark windbreakers with FBI stenciled in yellow across their backs. The silence that sweeps through the sixty-first floor is absolute. It is a vacuum that sucks the oxygen right out of my lungs. Even the digital stock tickers on the wall seem to freeze in shock.
"Sloane Vance?" the lead agent asks. He doesn't wait for a confirmation.
"You're under arrest for conspiracy to commit securities fraud, suborning perjury, and embezzlement of corporate funds."
The words feel like nonsense—static in my brain. I look at Vane. He is standing in the doorway of his office, his face a mask of such profound, icy stillness that I feel my heart wither in my chest. He doesn't move. He doesn't shout. He doesn't demand to see a warrant. He just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching them pivot me toward the mahogany desk—the same desk where we were tangled together just hours before.
They force my chest against the wood, the cold surface pressing into my ribs as the handcuffs ratchet shut.
"Arthur," I whisper, the realization hitting me with the force of a lead pipe as I watch the leaked video file.
Arthur Sterling didn't just go into the night. He left a "Dead Man's Switch." He anticipated Vane's move and left a gift for the Feds. He has leaked a counter-audio—a deep-faked, meticulously edited version of our garage encounter. In Arthur's version, I am the one offering the bribe. I am the one threatening to destroy Vane if Arthur doesn't pay up.
I am the predator. Vane is the victim.
"Vane, tell them," I rasp as they begin to haul me toward the elevator. My voice sounds thin, desperate. "Tell them it's a lie. Tell them about the tapes you have."
He doesn't speak. His eyes meet mine for a split second as the agents push me past him. For the first time, I see something in his gaze that terrifies me more than the federal agents or the prospect of a prison cell: Calculation.
He isn't looking at me like a partner. He is looking at the board members watching from the conference room. He is looking at the plummeting stock price on the monitors. He is looking at the wreckage of his reputation and measuring the cost of saving mine.
"Vane!" I scream, but the elevator doors hiss shut, cutting off the sound.
The descent feels like being dropped into a bottomless pit. My world turns to concrete and fluorescent lights, and the only thing I can see is the image of Vane Sterling standing perfectly still, watching me fall so he can stay on his throne.