True to their word, it was an update. With a furrowed brow, the board members stared at the exaggerated titles dancing on their phone screens, then clicked the news.
#Elder Allen, healthy and sound, not in hospital. Desmond fools the public.#
#Desmond discovered plotting the death of his brother—click for evidence.
#An accident or a planned murder? Desmond has questions to answer as the truth is unveiled.
#Was Desmond an Allen or the hand that bit the one who fed him?
#Desmond Allen sued for murder and intentional harm.
#Desmond Allen loses his position as interim president.
Each news update was more damning than the last.
As the board members stared at the cacophony of headlines, their guts twisted. Eyes once filled with admiration now burned with inquisitiveness, disgust, and bitter disappointment.
Desmond felt every stare like a knife to the chest. Noting the unhealthy scrutiny in the room, he slowly pulled out his phone.
His trembling fingers clicked open his news app, but before it could load, the conference room’s projection screen whirred softly and came to life, casting a pale light over the somber boardroom.
On screen appeared a list of internal transactions carried out within the Allen Group under Desmond’s one-year chairmanship.
Each entry was accompanied by sub-notes indicating financial discrepancies, potential conflicts of interest, and funds redirected through shell accounts.
Desmond’s eyes widened. His heart thundered against his ribcage. A sharp pain gripped his chest as he stared at the evidence of his downfall.
His lips parted to speak, but no words came. His hand trembled, and the phone slipped from his grasp, crashing onto the table with a metallic clang that echoed ominously.
His head snapped to the other end of the table, locking eyes with Davis, who hadn’t once looked away since the room fell silent.
"Davis... you’re the one doing this?" Desmond’s voice was low, icy. "Ruining my reputation?"
Davis remained still for a beat, then slowly turned his head. "Uncle, do you think I have that much free time? Besides," he said with unsettling calm, "there are still a lot of explanations you’ll be making."
He leaned slightly forward, his tone chilling. "Uncle... What happened to my parents?"
The question fell like thunder, reverberating in every corner of the room. A chill gripped the air.
Desmond felt it like a sharp, unrelenting slap. His gaze faltered. He looked away, seeking refuge in the eyes of the board, but their glares remained steady, some curious, others horrified.
He drew a deep breath, steeling himself. No, he wouldn’t let Jessica and Davis steal his legacy. If he had to walk away, he would do so with dignity. He rose to address the room.
"If you will allow me—"
But Jessica’s voice sliced through his attempt like a knife.
"Uncle, don’t you think someone with a clear conscience wouldn’t avoid direct questions? What really happened in the past year?" Her tone was cool, clipped, and unmistakably authoritative.
Desmond met her gaze, his eyes narrow. "And who do you think you are to question me?" he snapped, fists clenched at his sides.
Jessica raised a brow, folding her arms across her chest. Her voice, when it came, was cold enough to frost glass. "Uncle, that question shouldn’t be directed at me. Because for one... I’d like to know your level of involvement in the death of my mother—Nora Santiago."
The name struck like a spear. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at her face, finally seeing it, studying it. The shape of her cheekbones. The fire in her eyes. Eyes that belonged to Nora.
He had never bothered to look too closely. Never asked George who the girl truly was when he demanded a bride for Davis. If he had only known...he wouldn’t have given George the chance of switching out Russ for Jessica.
For George, Risa is the excellent child and shouldn’t be cajoled into a marriage that will lead to her end but now for him, he had suffered irredeemably.
No. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t afford regret—not now, not ever. He squared his shoulders.
Jessica stepped forward. Her poise radiated dominance. Cold amusement danced across her lips as she studied him.
"Mr. Desmond Allen," she said, her words sharp as ice, "for everyone that had a hand in her demise, I will play the long game... until I reach the end."
His voice cracked as anger surged through him. "Is that a threat?"
Jessica’s smile was bone-deep and unforgiving. "I don’t make threats. I make promises."
Gasps broke out around the room. Vera, seated in the corner, covered her mouth in disbelief. She had heard tales about Nora, of her bond with Davis’s mother, of her tragic end. But this? Jessica? The same girl Desmond had tried to dismiss as irrelevant?
"It seems they have made a match." She mused.
"Maybe, just maybe, I will get to pay back and take back what’s rightfully mine." She muttered to herself with a smirk.
Desmond scoffed, trying to recover. "Jessica, you shouldn’t meddle in matters that are beyond you."
"I appreciate the advice," she replied, her tone laced with scorn.
Then, turning to the board, she addressed them with measured resolve. "Desmond Allen has tarnished this company’s reputation. His personal scandals, financial irregularities, and criminal charges are endangering the Allen Group’s future."
She paused to let the weight of her words sink in. "With the media clamoring for statements and law enforcement waiting outside, I propose we adjourn this meeting. We’ll reconvene tomorrow at 9 a.m."
Desmond’s stomach churned. He snapped toward her.
"What are you planning to do?"
"Nothing major," she said smoothly. "Just giving you an opportunity to have a one-on-one chat with the law."
Then, under her breath, she added, "And if I don’t get a satisfying report by morning... I’ll finish it myself. You can trust me. It won’t be painful."
Desmond’s face drained of color. He raised his hand in fury, intent on striking her.
But before the slap could land, Davis stood and caught his wrist midair, his grip vice-like.
"Dear Uncle," he said softly, dangerously, "I believe you know the rule—no one touches my wife."
Desmond jerked his arm back. "You’re letting her be presumptuous. Giving her too much freedom... too much privilege! You handed her all your shares—kept only a few! Do you think she’ll cherish you?"
Davis turned to Jessica. His expression softened, the tension slipping from his shoulders.
"I think you’re right, Uncle. She should be free. She should be bold. And whether or not she cherishes me... well, I cherish her. That’s enough for us both."
Then, calmly, he added, "As for the shares—they were her betrothal gifts."
Desmond stumbled back a step. The final blow had landed. Gasping for air, he realized just how much he had lost. Everything he had painstakingly planned for, built, claimed. And more painful was the fact he lost it to a woman—Jessica.
He loathed her with every fiber of his being.
But before he could retreat with what pride he had left, Davis leaned forward once more, voice gentle and cutting.
"Oh, and one more thing, Uncle. Thank you for choosing her. You chose wisely... when I had chosen foolishly." He said casting a subtle glance at Vera whose hand trembled briefly at the comment
Desmond turned away, staggering as the weight of his ruin sank in.