Chapter 8 - The Whistleblower's Entrance
Jerome let out a strangled,
hysterical laugh,
looking around the table at the men who had rubber-stamped his bonuses for a decade.
“You can't do that!”
he snarled,
pointing a shaking finger at me.
“A vote of no confidence requires forty-eight hours notice!
It requires an independent committee review!
Henry,
tell her!
You are the lead independent director!
You cannot let this woman destroy everything we built!”
Henry Vance did not look up from the bank transfers in front of him.
His hands were shaking as he read through the wire records.
“Seven million four hundred thousand dollars,”
Henry whispered,
his voice heavy with disbelief and disgust.
“Transferred directly from Northgate’s operational reserves into an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.
Jerome,
this account was flagged by the Securities and Exchange Commission two hours ago.
They have already issued a formal subpoena for the company’s audit logs.”
Jerome stumbled backward,
his shoulder hitting the frosted glass partition.
“That wasn't me!”
he stammered,
sweat pouring down the side of his neck,
ruining his crisp silk collar.
“That was Bridget!
Bridget Ford handled all the operational disbursements for the Bellmore acquisition!
She had independent signing authority for consulting retainers!
If there was fraud,
she acted alone!
She forged my signatures!”
The boardroom doors opened once more.
A woman stepped into the room,
walking slowly,
her head bowed,
clutching a thick manila folder against her chest.
It was Bridget Ford.
She was no longer wearing the glamorous champagne silk dress from the previous evening.
Instead,
she wore an oversized dark overcoat,
flat black shoes,
and zero jewelry.
Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup,
revealing the dark purple bruise on her right cheek where my hand had struck her,
and her eyes were red and swollen from crying all night.
Jerome froze,
staring at her as if she were a ghost that had come to drag him into an open grave.
“Bridget?”
he whispered,
his voice cracking.
Bridget did not look at him.
She walked directly toward Sarah Sterling,
set the manila folder on the table,
and took a step back,
her voice trembling but completely audible throughout the silent room.
“I did not forge anything,”
Bridget said,
tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Every single transfer to Asteria Global was initiated from Jerome Chase’s personal laptop in his private office suite.
I have provided Miss Sterling with the digital timestamps,
the two-factor authentication logs,
and twenty-four audio recordings of Jerome directing me to route the funds away from Northgate’s primary audits.”
Jerome’s eyes bugged out of his head.
He lunged across the corner of the table toward her,
his face twisted into a mask of pure,
murderous rage.
“You lying bitch!”
he screamed,
spittle flying from his lips.
“I gave you everything!
I gave you a vice presidency!
I bought you that apartment in Tribeca!
I made you someone in this city,
and you sell me out to save your own pathetic neck?”
Before Jerome could reach Bridget,
the two private security officers stepped forward,
grabbing Jerome by both arms,
twisting them behind his back,
and forcing him down against the mahogany table.
The clatter of water glasses rattling against the glass tabletop echoed like gunfire in the room.
Bridget flinched,
stepping behind Sarah,
sobbing quietly into her hands.
I didn't flinch.
I didn't move an inch.
I stood above Jerome as he struggled against the security guards,
his cheek pressed flat against the cold wood of the table he had ruled for twenty years.
“You didn't buy her that apartment,
Jerome,”
I said,
looking down at his contorted face.
May you like
“You paid the down payment with funds stolen from my grandfather’s educational trust.
And the foreclosure notice will be posted on her door by three o'clock this afternoon.”
