Chapter 9 - The Raid
I raised my hands instantly, tears of relief flooding my eyes.
The FBI had intercepted the satellite distress signal just before the ship left the harbor.
Dozens of armed tactical agents swarmed the container, securing the millions of dollars in cash.
An agent helped me down onto the docks, wrapping a thick thermal blanket over my shoulders.
The entire shipping yard was lit up with flashing red and blue police lights.
I watched as agents dragged a furious Arthur out of a warehouse office in heavy steel handcuffs.
A few moments later, Julian was pulled out of a black town car, screaming about his rights.
Even Natalie was escorted out, her mascara running down her face as she sobbed uncontrollably.
I stood in the freezing morning air, watching my enemies lose everything they had built.
A senior FBI agent approached me, holding my forged shipping manifest in his hands.
“Miss Sterling, your distress signal saved us months of investigation,” the agent smiled warmly.
“We have the flash drive, the cloned phone data, and the physical cash.”
“You are completely cleared of any wrongdoing.”
I let out a breath I felt like I had been holding for years.
The nightmare was finally over.
I had saved my company, exposed the traitors, and protected my family's legacy.
I thanked the agents and arranged for a private car to take me back to my corporate penthouse.
I desperately needed to sleep for a week and figure out how to rebuild Maison Avery.
When I finally arrived at my luxury apartment, the sun was rising over the city skyline.
I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of ice water, and took a long sip.
I walked down the quiet hallway toward my master bedroom, dropping my coat on the floor.
I pushed the bedroom door open and froze completely in the doorway.
Someone was sitting on the edge of my bed.
It was a man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his back turned to me.
He slowly stood up and turned around to face me.
My glass of water slipped from my hand, shattering violently against the hardwood floor.
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It was my father.
The founder of Maison Avery, who had supposedly died in a tragic plane crash five years ago, was standing right in front of me.
