“You need to be in the medical wing now,” Dr. Monroe said in the foyer, her voice tight as she checked my vitals. “Your contractions are five minutes apart.”
“I have an hour,” I breathed, gripping the marble console as another contraction tore through me.
“Maya,” Jonathan growled, pacing with his cane, “this is madness. I will send the lawyers. You are going to the hospital.”
“No,” I snapped.
Everyone froze.
I forced myself upright.
“He took my dignity in person. I am taking his life apart in person. Get the car.”
Forty-five minutes later, I stood outside the conference room at Grant’s corporate headquarters downtown.
I wore a tailored crimson maternity suit, my hair pulled into a severe knot. Pain radiated through my body, but fury held my spine straight.
Through the glass wall, I saw Grant.
He had just opened a bottle of champagne. His board was gathered around the table, laughing, clapping, celebrating.
“To the NovaCore acquisition,” Grant said, raising his glass. “And to the next billion.”
I did not knock.
I pushed open the glass doors and walked in, flanked by Meridian lawyers and security.
The laughter died.
Grant turned.
The color drained from his face.
“Maya?” he said. “What are you doing here? The press said you were on bed rest.”
He glanced around, already preparing the concerned husband act.
“Honey, you shouldn’t be here. The baby—”
“Do not take another step toward me,” I said.
He stopped.
I walked to the head of the table, breathing through a contraction, and placed my briefcase on the polished wood.
“I am not here for a reunion, Mr. Sterling,” I said. “I am here as Vice President of Acquisitions for the Meridian Global shadow syndicate. I am officially calling in your fifty-million-dollar bridge loan.”
Grant laughed, high and nervous.
“You can’t. The loan was funded an hour ago. The contract gives me five years.”
“Section Four, Paragraph B,” I said. “Immediate forfeiture of leveraged collateral in the event of pre-existing, undisclosed fiduciary fraud.”
His mouth opened.
“Fraud?” he stammered. “My books are clean.”
“Your books are fiction.”
I tossed another folder onto the table.
“Our accountants found the four million dollars you embezzled from client pension funds to pay Vanessa’s debts and keep your lifestyle afloat.”
The boardroom erupted in whispers.
Grant staggered back.
“You are in default,” I said.
I stepped closer, ignoring the knife of pain in my abdomen.
“I own this firm. I own your penthouse. I own your cars. I own the leather chair you were sitting in. Based on the terms of your own greed, which my lawyers find legally binding, you walk away with nothing.”
His knees buckled.
He grabbed the table, sobbing.
“Maya, please. I’ll go to jail. I’m the father of your child. You can’t do this.”
I looked down at him.
“Let’s see how you survive without me,” I said, giving him his own words back.
