Chapter 8 - THE TRAP AT CANNIFTON|
At 8:00 AM the following morning, Beckett Hail stood outside the downtown offices of Vanguard Capital, surrounded by three corporate lawyers and two PR strategists.
His face was pale, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. He had slept two hours in his office chair.
"Remember, Beck," his chief attorney warned as they walked toward the glass elevators. "Do not mention the assault video. Focus entirely on the delivery capability of Hail Development. If Vance pulls Vanguard's funding, the bank will call our construction loans by Friday."
"I know how to manage Julian Vance," Beck growled, adjusting his silk tie. "He's a money guy. He cares about numbers, not domestic drama."
The doors of the top-floor boardroom slid open.
The room was vast, lined with chrome and dark walnut, overlooking the misty Toronto skyline. Sitting at the head of the twenty-foot conference table was Julian Vance—a fifty-year-old man with silver hair and eyes like polished slate.
Standing beside Vance, dressed in a sleek, tailored navy maternity suit with her dark hair pulled into an elegant bun, was Imara.
Beck froze in the doorway, his jaw clenching.
"Imara," Beck said, taking a step forward. "What are you doing here? This is a high-level corporate meeting. You belong at home resting."
Imara didn't flinch. She met his gaze with absolute coldness.
"I am the lead architect of Threshold Commons, Beck," Imara said, her voice echoing clearly off the glass walls. "This is precisely where I belong."
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Julian Vance gestured to the empty leather chairs across from Imara.
"Sit down, Beckett," Julian said smoothly, resting his hands on the table. "We were just looking at Mrs. Coulson's original 2021 Montreal blueprints. The ones that prove your deputy, Dario, didn't draw a single line of this project."
