She Threw Me Out of the Front Row for Looking Poor—Then the Foundation Lawyer Welcomed Me Back by Name.

"Ah, Celeste," Arthur said from his seat next to Vincent. "Please, come in. We were just finalizing the transition paperwork."

Celeste walked into the room, her legs feeling like lead. "You can't do this. I'll sue all of you. I'll drag this foundation through the mud. I'll go to the press!"

Vincent raised a single hand. The entire room went dead silent. He didn't look angry. He looked at her with a profound, terrifying pity.

"Your father," Vincent said, his voice rumbling through the quiet room, "came to me thirty-five years ago. He was bankrupt. He was about to go to prison for embezzlement. I gave him twenty million dollars in cash to start this charity. The deal was simple. He manages the public face, he does some good for the city, and my family's legacy is quietly protected in the bylaws."

Celeste shook her head, tears of rage and denial welling in her eyes. "You're a liar. My father was a good man."

"Your father was a parasite," Vincent corrected smoothly. "When I stepped away from the public eye, he thought I was gone for good. He started writing my name out of the documents. He started believing the money was his. And then he died, and he left you the illusion of an empire."

Vincent leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands, the gold signet ring gleaming. "I didn't come back for the money, Celeste. I have more money than God. I came back because I watched you on television last month, using my charity to evict a low-income housing complex so you could build a private art gallery."

He stood up slowly. The sheer physical presence of the man made the board members shrink back in their chairs.

"You aren't fired, Celeste," Vincent said quietly. "You are evicted. The accounts are frozen because the initial twenty million was a loan. With thirty-five years of interest, you owe me roughly eighty-four million dollars. Your penthouse, your cars, your jewelry... they belong to me now."

Celeste collapsed into a chair, the air leaving her lungs in a ragged gasp. The bright cinematic world she lived in had just snapped to black. She had nothing. She was nothing.

Vincent adjusted his jacket, picked up his cane, and walked slowly toward the door. As he passed her, he didn't even look down.

He stepped out of the boardroom, Michael waiting for him in the hallway.

"Is it done?" Michael asked.

"It's done," Vincent replied.

As they walked toward the elevator, Vincent's burner phone—a cheap, plastic device he kept in his breast pocket—began to vibrate. It was a number that only three people in the world knew. Two of them were dead.

Vincent stopped walking. He pulled the phone out, staring at the blank screen as it buzzed. The ghosts of his past weren't just waking up; they were calling.

He pressed answer, raising the phone to his ear.