"Let's burn them to the ground." I take his arm, feeling the solid strength of him beneath my fingers. "Professionally speaking."
The ride to the office is quiet, charged with anticipation and something that feels like the calm before a storm. Knox keeps my hand wrapped in his on the center console, his thumb stroking absently over my knuckles, and every few minutes he glances at the braid behind my ears.
The elevator ride to the executive floor feels endless. The numbers climb with a flutter of nervous energy in my stomach. The documents are solid. The evidence is irrefutable. Hoffstead is done, finished, destroyed by his own greed and arrogance.
The elevator doors slide open on the executive floor, and we step out together into the hallway leading to the main boardroom. I can see through the glass walls that the board members are already assembled, gathered around the long table with expressions ranging from anxious to openly hostile. Knox's hand settles warm and grounding on the small of my back, and I straighten my spine, preparing for the final confrontation.
And then I see Hoffstead.
He's standing at the head of the table, smug smile firmly in place, but he's not alone. Two uniformed police officers flank him, their hands resting on their belts, their expressionsprofessionally neutral. Hoffstead's gaze finds us through the glass, and his smile widens into something sharp and predatory.
"There they are. Officers, those are the two individuals who broke into my office last night and stole confidential documents from my private safe. I want them arrested immediately for breaking and entering, corporate espionage, and grand theft."
16
KNOX
The police officers move toward us, and every instinct I have honed through centuries of battle screams at me to plant myself between them and Cypress, to bare my tusks and let loose a war cry that will send these uniformed humans scattering like frightened deer.
But Cypress does not even flinch.
She walks directly past the approaching officers as though they are merely furniture cluttering her path, her heels clicking against the polished floor with the steady rhythm of a war drum. The leather satchel swings at her hip, and she reaches into it without breaking stride, pulling out a thick manila folder stuffed with documents that she spreads across the boardroom table with the practiced efficiency of a general laying out battle plans.
"Before you arrest anyone, "the board should probably take a look at these financial records I discovered during a routine audit of Meridian Holdings' public filings."
Hoffstead's smug expression falters. "Those documents were stolen from my private?—"
"These documents," Cypress interrupts smoothly, "are copies of records that were cross-referenced with publicly availableSEC filings, tax records, and banking statements that were subpoenaed by our legal team three days ago. The originals remain in the custody of our attorneys. Officers, I assume you'll want to verify chain of custody before making any arrests? Our lawyers are happy to provide a full accounting of how these documents were legally obtained."
I watch her work with the same reverent awe I once reserved for master swordsmiths and legendary tacticians. She moves around the table, placing documents in front of each board member with surgical precision, and as she does, she narrates the story of Hoffstead's downfall in crisp, devastating detail.
"Page three shows a series of shell companies registered in the Cayman Islands, all of which trace back to Hoffstead Capital through a web of intermediary holding corporations. Page seven demonstrates how funds were systematically siphoned from Pinnacle Solutions' research and development budget into these shell companies over a period of eighteen months. Page twelve— shows the personal bank account where Hoffstead deposited his share of the embezzled funds, totaling approximately forty-seven million dollars."
The boardroom has gone absolutely silent. The board members flip through their documents with expressions of growing horror, and I can see the exact moment when each of them realizes the magnitude of the fraud that has been laid bare before them. Hoffstead's face has drained of color, his smug confidence crumbling like a poorly constructed fortification under siege.
"This is ridiculous. These documents are clearly fabricated, planted by these criminals to cover their own?—"
"Mr. Hoffstead, I suggest you stop talking. Immediately."
Hoffstead's mouth opens and closes uselessly, and I feel a surge of primal satisfaction at watching my enemy reduced to such pathetic floundering. Cypress continues her presentationwithout acknowledging his interruption, laying out the evidence with the methodical thoroughness of a master strategist. She explains the accounting irregularities, the falsified reports, the paper trail that leads directly from the company's coffers to Hoffstead's personal accounts.
By the time she finishes, the two police officers have shifted their attention from us to Hoffstead, their professional neutrality giving way to barely concealed contempt. One of them pulls out a small notebook and begins taking notes, while the other speaks quietly into his radio, calling for additional units.
"Officers," Helena Bigg says, rising from her seat with the dignity of a matriarch passing judgment, "I believe you'll find that the actual criminals are not the ones presenting evidence, but rather the one who called you here. Mr. Hoffstead has been systematically defrauding this company and its shareholders for nearly two years."
The younger officer steps toward Hoffstead, one hand moving to the handcuffs on his belt. "Mr. Hoffstead, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
I watch as the cuffs close around Hoffstead's wrists, the satisfying click of metal against metal sounding like the closing note of a victory symphony. He struggles weakly, his face contorted with impotent rage, but the officers handle him with brisk efficiency, guiding him toward the door with firm hands. As he passes me, I allow myself a small smile, baring just a hint of tusk that I know he will interpret correctly.
"The battle is over. You fought with deception and treachery, and you lost to honor and superior strategy. Remember this defeat when you rot in your prison cell."
Hoffstead's response is a string of profanity that would be impressive if it were not so pathetically futile.
The remaining board members exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them that speaks of shared relief and cautious optimism. Helena Bigg clears her throat, drawing all attention back to the table.
"Given the circumstances," she says, "I move that we take an immediate vote on the leadership of Pinnacle Solutions. All in favor of confirming Knox Bloodaxe as permanent Chief Executive Officer, please raise your hand."
Every hand around the table goes up. The vote is unanimous, and I feel a rush of triumph that is unlike anything I have experienced on traditional battlefields. This victory was won not with blades and blood, but with wit and wisdom, with careful planning and meticulous execution, and the taste of it is sweeter than any plunder I have ever claimed.
