Chapter 9 - The Master of Ashbourne
The transition of power was not without friction.
Certain factions within Dominic’s legitimate corporate board—and within the darker corners of his family’s syndicate—viewed his reliance on an outsider with skepticism. They saw a woman who didn't come from their bloodlines, a woman who didn't fit the fragile, ornamental mold of high-society wives.
They called a mandatory executive council meeting at the private Yale Club in midtown.
Seven men in their sixties sat around a boardroom table, scowling as Dominic walked in—not alone, but with me at his side.
“Dominic,” the oldest member, an elder statesman named Robert Vance-Moreau, began with a heavy sigh. “We understand that Miss Hayes provided valuable administrative assistance during the Carrington debacle. But appointing her Executive Vice President of Vale Holdings with full signing authority? It’s unprecedented. She isn't of our world.”
“You're right,” Dominic said, taking his seat at the head of the table. He gestured for me to sit beside him. “She isn't of your world. If she were, she would have pocketed a kickback, lied to save her own skin, and watched me die of cyanide poisoning while checking her stock options.”
The room went uncomfortably quiet.
“For twenty years, you gentlemen have skimmed three percent off our Atlantic freight lines, calling it 'administrative overhead,'” I spoke up, opening my leather binder with practiced precision. “I spent yesterday afternoon cross-referencing your port manifests with fuel consumption logs from the last six quarters.”
I slid seven identical blue folders across the mahogany table, one to each man.
“You’ve been over-billing the primary logistics trust by forty-two million dollars,” I said calmly, looking Vance-Moreau dead in the eye. “I have drafted the tax clawback notices. You have until Friday at five o’clock to wire the funds back into the primary corporate account, or Dominic will refer the matter to the state attorney general—and to his private security team. Whichever visits you first.”
Vance-Moreau flipped through the pages, his face turning the color of curdled cream. He looked at Dominic, whose eyes were colder than a midwinter freeze.
“Any objections to her appointment?” Dominic asked softly.
Silence hung heavy over the boardroom. Not a single man raised his head.
“Good,” Dominic said, standing up. “Meeting adjourned.”
When we reached the limousine waiting on the street below, Dominic pulled me into his arms before the driver could even close the door. He kissed me with a fierce, possessive tenderness that drove every lingering doubt from my mind.
“You are terrifying,” he murmured against my lips, smiling.
May you like
“You hired an auditor,” I whispered back, threading my fingers through his dark hair. “You should have known what you were getting into.”
***
