Chapter 5 - The Corporate Lockout
Monday morning arrived with a brutal, biting wind that swept across the corporate plaza.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office on the fortieth floor, drinking black coffee.
Down below, the scene was exactly as pathetic as I had anticipated.
Martin Collins had rallied his terminated relatives, forming an angry mob of luxury-clad nepotism hires outside the main entrance.
They were holding hastily made picket signs, wearing designer coats, and trying to look like oppressed workers.
Claire stood near the front, wearing oversized sunglasses, furiously dialing numbers on her gold-plated phone.
They were demanding entry, demanding severance packages, and demanding a face-to-face meeting with the CEO.
They thought if they created a public scene, I would fold to protect the company's reputation.
They vastly underestimated how much I had prepared for this exact moment.
I turned away from the window and activated the massive presentation screen on my wall.
My lead forensic accountant, a brilliant and ruthless woman named Sarah, appeared on the video feed.
"Mr. Whitaker, the audit is complete," she said, adjusting her glasses.
"We have verified that Martin Collins created three dummy shell companies to funnel Whitaker resources into his private accounts."
Over the last five years, he had embezzled nearly four million dollars, masking it as inflated material costs for regional projects.
He had used my money to buy the estate they kicked my daughter out of.
"Did you send the file to the district attorney?" I asked, keeping my voice void of emotion.
"Yes, sir, exactly as you instructed," Sarah replied with a sharp smile.
I walked back to the window and looked down at the protest line.
Martin was shouting into a megaphone, trying to rally the freezing crowd of cousins and uncles.
Suddenly, the wail of police sirens cut through the crisp morning air.
Three black-and-white police cruisers aggressively hopped the curb, boxing in the protest line.
I watched as four uniformed officers stepped out, bypassing the screaming relatives and walking directly toward Martin.
Martin lowered the megaphone, his face turning an ashen shade of pale as an officer read from a warrant.
They spun him around, forced his hands behind his back, and locked cold steel handcuffs around his wrists.
Claire lunged forward to stop them, but an officer firmly pushed her back, issuing a stern warning.
As they shoved Martin into the back of the cruiser, Claire looked up toward the towering glass building.
Even from forty stories up, I knew she could feel me watching her empire crumble.
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My office phone chimed quietly, indicating an urgent incoming call from the lobby desk.
"Sir," the receptionist said nervously, "your wife is in the lobby, and she says if you don't come down, she's going to the press with a devastating secret."
