The Refugee of Truth
Twenty-four hours later, the Grand Regent Hotel was a crime scene, and Clara was the most wanted woman in the city's financial sector. She sat in a small, dingy diner on the outskirts of the lower district, far from the glittering chandeliers.
The neon sign outside buzzed rhythmically, casting a harsh pink glow over her face. She had changed into a simple denim jacket and jeans, her elegant evening dress shoved into a trash bin miles away. The scratch on her jaw had scabbed over, a small, dark line against her pale skin.
Arthur sat across from her, pushing a mug of black coffee toward her. "The news is calling you a corporate terrorist, Clara. The Vance lawyers are trying to spin the narrative that you falsified the documents to stage a hostile takeover."
"Let them spin," Clara said, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. "The federal prosecutors have the original blueprints. They can't fake the structural analysis reports from ten years ago. It’s over for them."
"For them, yes," Arthur said quietly. "But what about you? What about us? We spent our entire lives living for this moment. Now that it’s done... what do we do tomorrow?"
May you like
Clara looked out the window. A group of laborers was walking past, their faces tired, covered in the dust of a nearby construction site. She recognized that look. It was the look her father wore every night when he came home.
"We ensure it doesn't happen again," Clara said. "The Vance family was just one branch of a corrupt tree. The roots go deeper than we thought."
