Page 227 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

“Or your company?”

I let the silence sit between us for precisely the amount of time necessary to make him nervous.

“Just kidding.” I smiled. “I know it’s your company.”

His face flushed red. His fingers curled around the edges of the chair.

I loved it.

“Your company is…”

I drummed my fingers against the counter. Paused. Smiled.

“Bankrupt.”

His eyes widened. For one beautiful second, all the arrogance disappeared from his face. The color drained from his skin. “What? No, that’s not possible.” His voice sharpened with panic. “Liam wouldn’t let that happen—”

I laughed. I genuinely couldn’t help it. The sound bounced off the glass and filled the little visiting room. “Oh, this is going to be so good.”

He glared at me.

“Liam is the reason.” I leaned closer. “He made sure everything you did came back to destroy that company. Every shell corporation. Every laundered dollar. Every person you stepped on while climbing to the top.”

I watched the realization creep across his face, slow and ugly.

“He made sure they all had a seat at the table when the vultures came to pick the bones clean.”

It had been almost embarrassingly easy.

Once the money-laundering charges went public, the ship was already taking on water. Investors panicked. Partners vanished. People who had spent years praising Michael’s genius suddenly developed very pressing reasons to distance themselves from him, and the foundation he had devoted decades to building began crumbling in a matter of weeks.

Liam simply made sure it stayed under.

He started with the best employees.

Quietly. Carefully. He offered them positions that didn’t technically breach their non-competes, giving just enough room between the letter of the law and the spirit of it to keep everyone comfortable. The ones he couldn’t hire, he recommended elsewhere with such glowing enthusiasm that they barely had time to wonder whether they should feel guilty about leaving.

He made sure they landed on their feet.

The company was gone. The legacy was ash. And Michael Baylee ended up sitting across from me in a prison visitor’s room, drowning in a jumpsuit that didn’t fit properly, with nothing left except the name he had stolen and the years he had left to serve.

It was almost poetic.

Michael stared at me, mouth slightly open, his hands trembling around the phone.

“You did this,” he said. His voice was barely steady. “You and him.”

I tilted my head. “We helped.” I straightened in my chair. “Now. Your children.”

His hand tightened around the receiver until his knuckles went white.

“Liam is doing very well.” I let that settle for a moment. “Velaré just broke the top five. Fourth, actually. Fourth in the entire city. Not bad for a company everyone swore was going to collapse, right?”

He said nothing. He didn’t have to. His face was doing plenty of talking for him.

“And Cassandra…”

I paused.