Chapter 8 - The Fall of the Emperor
"You can't fire me!" Julian spat, finally finding his voice. "I am the face of this institution! I bring in the funding! I am a god in that delivery room!"
"You're a butcher," I corrected, my voice dropping to a glacial chill. I hit a button on a remote control, and the projector screen behind me lit up.
It wasn't financial charts. It was high-resolution photos.
The bruises on Clara’s back. The belt buckle welts.
Gasps echoed around the boardroom. Several board members looked physically sick.
"This is a lie! Deepfakes! She tripped!" Julian stammered, backing toward the door.
"I didn't stop there," I continued mercilessly. The screen changed to bank statements. Cayman Island transfers. "Embezzlement, Julian. Thirty-two million dollars over four years. And then... there's the worst part."
The screen displayed the faces of the two women who had died under his care.
"The FBI is currently raiding your office, Julian. They found the propofol and the succinylcholine you hid in the ceiling tiles of your private bathroom. The exact drugs used to induce 'sudden cardiac events' in these women."
Julian scrambled for the door, yanking on the handle. It was locked.
"You think you can outsmart me?" he snarled, turning back with a feral look in his eyes. "I'll kill you, Eleanor. I'll kill you and then I'll find Clara—"
The side doors of the boardroom burst open. Four armed FBI agents stormed in, weapons drawn, tackling the Chief of Obstetrics to the plush carpet.
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As they slapped the cuffs on him and read him his rights, I walked over, leaning down so I was eye-level with his pathetic, ruined face.
"You said you'd make sure she didn't survive the delivery," I whispered. "But you forgot one thing about deliveries, Julian. It's the mothers who push."
