Chapter 3 - The Viral Aftermath
By Thursday, the video hadn't just circulated internally; it had leaked to the financial press. A prominent business blog posted a blurred screenshot of Camila sitting on Gavin’s lap, accompanied by a scathing article about the lack of professionalism and potential misappropriation of funds at Summit Crest Group.
The house was a war zone. Gavin screamed at his PR team over the phone for hours, pacing the hallways like a caged animal. Camila had apparently been banned from the building by HR, and she was frantically calling Gavin's cell phone every ten minutes, demanding to know how he was going to protect her. He ignored her calls, proving that his loyalty existed only for himself.
Meanwhile, I spent my days quietly coordinating with Marcus Sterling. Marcus had been thrilled to hear from me. When I told him about the folder and the forged proxy documents, the veteran attorney had practically growled with anticipation. Over forty-eight hours, Marcus and a team of forensic accountants ruthlessly audited Gavin’s shadow accounts.
The discoveries were staggering. The $110,000 diamond necklace hadn't been purchased with Gavin’s personal money; he had expensed it through a shell vendor account tied to Summit Crest’s marketing budget. Camila’s $3,200-a-month luxury apartment was leased under the company’s corporate housing program. Gavin hadn't just broken his marriage vows; he had committed systemic corporate fraud and felony embezzlement.
On Friday morning, Gavin stood in front of the hallway mirror, adjusting his tie with shaking hands. He turned to me. I was wearing a simple, conservative beige dress—exactly the kind of muted, invisible outfit he preferred me in.
"Remember what we practiced," he said, his tone tight and commanding. "You sit directly behind me. When I introduce you, you smile. You nod. You let them see that our family is intact. If you mess this up, Nora, I swear to God, you will regret it."
"I won't mess it up," I promised, picking up my modest leather purse. Inside, resting against my wallet, was a sleek, silver USB drive containing sixty pages of explosive financial audits and a legally binding revocation of proxy.
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The drive into the city was completely silent. When we arrived at the sleek glass skyscraper that housed Summit Crest Group, a swarm of local reporters was already clustered near the entrance. Gavin grabbed my arm, gripping it tight enough to bruise, and hauled me through the lobby, playing the role of the protective, unified husband for the cameras.
We rode the elevator up to the top floor in total silence. The doors opened to the executive boardroom.
