Chapter 8 - The Fall of the Rocheforts
The room seemed to lose all atmospheric pressure.
“This is an outrage!” Elisa screamed, losing every shred of her polished veneer. She lunged toward the microphones, her eyes wild, her face contorting with grotesque panic. “Do you know who we are? We build orphanages! We feed the poor! Damon Cross fabricated this! That little street rat crawled out of the gutter to blackmail us!”
Elena Thorne stepped forward. She climbed the three steps to the stage without hesitating, standing toe-to-toe with the woman who had terrorized her and her child.
Elena unzipped her leather folder and slammed a stack of certified financial audits onto the podium.
“Every single shell company is listed right here, Elisa,” Elena said, her voice clear, bell-like, and utterly triumphant. “The Cayman accounts, the fake construction invoices for schools you never built, and the wire transfers you used to buy your four-million-dollar diamond necklace with money raised for pediatric leukemia research.”
A reporter from the *New York Times* shouted from the third row: “Mr. Cross, how did you verify these accounts in less than twenty-four hours?”
Damon looked straight into the central television camera lens, his expression carved from stone.
“I didn't just verify them,” Damon said. “I bought the debt of Rochefort Capital at seven o’clock this morning. As of two hours ago, I own every asset, every bank account, and every property associated with their name. Julian and Elisa Rochefort do not own the clothes on their backs. And every cent stolen from those children will be returned to them tenfold.”
Julian tried to make a break for the backstage exit, but Marcus Vance was already there. With a single, fluid motion, Marcus stepped into Julian’s path, spun him around, and pinned his arms behind his back as the federal agents clicked the steel handcuffs over his wrists.
Elisa shrieked as a female officer took her arm, twisting her wrists behind her back. The heavy diamond bracelet that had glistened so arrogantly at the gala fell from her wrist, clattering uselessly against the municipal floor tiles.
As Elisa was escorted past the podium in irons, she caught sight of Lily standing at the foot of the stage.
Lily didn't cower. She took one step forward, pulled a tiny cellophane-wrapped piece of peppermint candy from her coat pocket—the kind given out at the front desk—and held it out toward Elisa.
“Here,” Lily whispered, her innocent voice cutting through the humiliation of the falling tyrant. “You can have some. Food is for everybody.”
May you like
Elisa let out a choked sob of utter, broken defeat, burying her face into her shoulder as the officers dragged her out through the flashes of five hundred cameras.
***
