Chapter 7 - Ghosts of the Past
Colton removed his umbrella, handing it to Marcus with a subtle nod before stepping into the dim hallway and looking up the stairs.
“Elena,” Colton said, his voice softening just a fraction, carrying a strange, rare respect. “It’s been twenty-five years. You haven't lost your eye for dramatic lighting, I see.”
Elena gripped the wooden banister tighter, her knuckles turning white. She swayed slightly, her breathing shallow and rapid. Junie dropped the bakery box onto the hall table and scrambled up the stairs as fast as her new boots would carry her, throwing her small arms around her grandmother’s waist.
“Grandma, don't stand up! You’re going to fall!” Junie cried, burying her face in the plaid flannel. “Mr. Vale bought me a cheeseburger! A big one! And fries! And he said... he said we’re going to fix things!”
Elena gently stroked Junie’s hair, her weary eyes never leaving Colton’s face. She let out a dry, humorless laugh that ended in another sharp cough.
“Fix things?” Elena murmured bitterly. “Colton, empires aren't fixed; they’re dismantled and sold for scrap. And I am quite clearly scrap metal.”
“You designed the municipal library downtown, Elena,” Colton said, taking two slow steps up the wooden stairs until he was standing just a few feet below her. “The foundation of that building is reinforced concrete designed to withstand a magnitude eight earthquake. You taught me that structural integrity isn't about how pretty the facade is—it’s about what’s hidden underneath.”
Elena looked down at him, her gaze piercing through the fog of her exhaustion. “Why are you here, Colton? You didn't drive out to a dead-end street in the rain just to discuss municipal engineering.”
“No,” Colton admitted plainly. “I drove out here because I found a five-year-old girl standing outside a diner window, trying to budget a single hamburger so her grandmother could have the leftovers. And when I traced the logic, it led straight back to an old architect who was swindled out of her pension by a shell corporation my firm acquired twenty years ago.”
Elena’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened. “You... you know about the Atlantic Trust buyout?”
“I know everything that happens under my corporate umbrella,” Colton said coldly, his jaw tightening. “And I discovered last night—thanks to an internal audit prompted by a completely unrelated tax inquiry—that your signature was forged on the waiver relinquishing your shares. A man named Henderson, who worked for my predecessor, engineered it.”
Elena stared at him, tears finally breaking through the dry brim of her eyelids, cutting slow paths down her wrinkled cheeks. “He... he told me I had no legal recourse. He said the firm was bankrupt. I was raising Junie’s mother alone... I didn't have the fight left in me.”
“Well,” Colton said, stepping up the final step until he stood right beside them on the landing, his presence filling the dark hallway with an overwhelming sense of absolute power. “Henderson is currently serving a federal sentence for wire fraud in an entirely different matter. But as for your shares—they’ve been sitting in an escrow account, compounding interest for two decades.”
May you like
Elena gripped the banister, her knees trembling. “Compounding... what?”
“With dividends, back-pay, and corporate restitution adjusted for inflation, your stake in the Vale-Henderson Group is currently valued at forty-two million dollars, Elena,” Colton said calmly, as if reading off a weather report. “You aren't scrap metal. You’re the majority stakeholder of the company that tried to bury you.”
