Chapter 8
1836words
Morning light filtered through sheer curtains. He slept deeply beside me, his breathing steady. His face in sleep had shed all its hardness and vigilance, revealing an almost boyish vulnerability.
Last night...
Memories rushed back like a tide. The exhaustion after finalizing our plans, the tension before battle, and that overwhelming need to hold onto something real. We'd barely spoken—just sought comfort in each other's bodies, one final moment of connection before the end.
His kisses, his touch, the way his voice broke when he whispered my name... moments that should never have existed, yet felt more real than anything in the past decade.
I slipped from bed silently, careful not to wake him. Today was the shareholders' meeting—our day of reckoning. Last night would remain the final secret chapter in our revenge story.
As I finished dressing, Damian's eyes opened suddenly.
"Sneaking out?" His voice was rough with sleep.
I froze but didn't turn. "Last night was just last night. Today we return to our separate paths."
"Even after everything that happened?"
"Especially after everything that happened." My voice remained steady while something shattered inside me. "Damian, we have no future. After today, it all ends."
I heard him rising from bed, but I was out the door before he could speak.
Leaving behind that brief sanctuary that wasn't meant for Amelia Vanderbilt, avenger of the fallen.
Hours later, Blackwood Group's annual shareholders' meeting convened in Manhattan's most opulent convention center.
Hundreds of shareholders, directors, analysts, and reporters filled the massive hall. They'd come for the annual report and strategic outlook, but would witness something far more dramatic.
Alistair Blackwood, the seventy-year-old titan, commanded the podium with remarkable vigor, boasting of the group's achievements. His voice projected confidence and authority, betraying not a hint of guilt or fear.
I sat in the third row in a precisely tailored charcoal suit, clutching a thick folder. Beside me, Damian's face was grim as he watched his father perform.
"...our total revenue increased by twelve percent this year, with net profits reaching historic highs. These achievements reflect both our team's dedication and your continued support as shareholders..."
Alistair's speech radiated confidence and pride. Soon that pride would crumble into terror.
Midway through his presentation came the scheduled Q&A session.
I rose to my feet.
"I have a question." My voice carried clearly through the vast hall, measured and controlled.
Alistair turned toward me, the faintest flicker of wariness crossing his features. "Please, go ahead."
"Mr. Blackwood, what are your thoughts on the Vanderbilt family bankruptcy from a decade ago?"
The question dropped like a stone into still water. Vanderbilt—a name many recognized from that spectacular financial collapse a decade earlier.
Alistair's expression remained perfectly controlled. "The Vanderbilt bankruptcy resulted from operational failures and poor decision-making—unfortunate but common in business. Blackwood Group had minimal involvement in that situation."
"Is that so?" I pressed. "Then perhaps you can explain why, in the three months before their collapse, you held numerous meetings with tax officials and banking regulators?"
Alistair's gaze hardened. "Young woman, who exactly are you? What qualifications do you have to raise these irrelevant matters at our shareholders' meeting?"
"My name is Amelia Vanderbilt." I spoke the name I hadn't used publicly in ten years. "I am the sole survivor of the Vanderbilt family."
A collective gasp rippled through the hall.
"And I have evidence proving that my family's destruction wasn't due to operational errors, but a meticulously planned corporate assassination."
I raised the folder. "Here are recordings, documents, and witness testimonies detailing how Alistair Blackwood colluded with officials, manipulated banking systems, and systematically destroyed my family."
Alistair paled momentarily before regaining composure, his lips curling into a cold smile. "This is slander. This woman is clearly a corporate saboteur attempting to damage our reputation with baseless accusations. Security should remove her immediately."
"A saboteur?" I laughed. "Then explain this."
I produced a small recording device and pressed play.
Alistair's unmistakable voice filled the hall:
"...Vanderbilt was a worthy opponent, but too soft-hearted. Business is war—there's no 'playing fair,' only winning and losing... As for his daughter, you handed me that weapon yourself, didn't you?"
This was his recent conversation with Damian. Not explicit criminal evidence, but enough to show his premeditation and pride in destroying the Vanderbilts.
The hall erupted in chaos. Shareholders whispered frantically while reporters snapped photos in a frenzy.
But Alistair wasn't finished.
"This is completely out of context!" His voice rose sharply. "Even if there was competition between us, it was entirely legal! The business world is built on competition and strategic maneuvering!"
"Legal?" I sneered. "What about bribing officials? Threatening witnesses? Murdering the Harris family?"
Seeing his cold, contemptuous smile, I added the cruel twist: "Oh, and let's not forget your dear wife..."
That unfinished sentence shattered his composure entirely.
"Shut your mouth!... I never—" he blurted, then froze, realizing his mistake.
Too late. His outburst practically confirmed his connection to both Harris and his wife's fate—and we'd barely begun the cross-examination.
At that moment, Damian rose to his feet.
He walked toward the podium, each step deliberate and weighted. Every eye in the hall followed the young heir's progress.
"Distinguished shareholders, members of the press," Damian's voice was steady, each word precisely delivered. "As CEO of Blackwood Group, I stake my personal and professional reputation on the truth of everything Miss Vanderbilt has just stated."
"Damian!" Alistair's voice cracked with rage and desperation. "Do you realize what you're doing? You're destroying our family! Your own future!"
"No, Father." Damian's voice was ice. "I'm saving this family. Saving it from the taint of your crimes."
He turned to address the shareholders: "Effective immediately, I am assuming complete control of Blackwood Group operations. Alistair Blackwood will no longer hold any position within this company."
"You have no authority!" Alistair roared. "I founded this company! I am the chairman!"
"But you're no longer a leader these shareholders can trust," Damian replied evenly. "Our charter states that when a chairman's actions severely damage company reputation, an emergency shareholder vote can remove him from office."
"I call for that vote now."
Hands began to rise. One, two, ten, fifty...
The vast majority sided with Damian.
Alistair watched, his face ashen. He knew it was over. He had lost everything.
But he had one final card to play.
Or so he believed.
"Damian," his tone shifted to pleading paternal affection, "we're family. Blood is thicker than water. Would you really destroy your own father for this... outsider?"
His final gambit—emotional manipulation, a desperate appeal to family loyalty.
But Damian's response crushed any remaining hope.
"You stopped being my father long ago," Damian said quietly, each word precise as a surgeon's cut. "The moment you ordered my death, any bond between us was severed."
"I... I never—"
"Long Island. Harris's home. Two weeks ago." Damian cut him off, tossing down a list of mercenary names. "Did you think I was still naive enough to believe in accidents, like with Mother's death? Fortunately, mercenaries are easily bought—by either side."
These words broke something fundamental in Alistair.
He knew it was over. The mask he'd worn for decades had shattered. His wife's powerful family would learn of his crimes. His empire, his power, his freedom—all turned to ash in an instant.
Police officers who had been waiting outside entered the hall as Damian finished speaking, moving purposefully toward Alistair.
"Alistair Blackwood, you're under arrest for suspicion of murder, bribery, money laundering, and other charges." The officer's voice echoed through the stunned hall.
The king had fallen.
The room descended into chaos, camera flashes strobing wildly. Damian stood alone on stage, facing the tempest he'd unleashed, enduring the scrutiny and speculation of hundreds. He'd won his victory but lost everything—his father, his family's legacy, a past he could never reclaim.
And I, as chaos erupted, slipped silently through a side exit.
Just as I had arrived—a ghost vanishing back into New York's steel canyons.
Epilogue
Three months later. Geneva.
I stood in my familiar minimalist office, gazing down at Lake Geneva's tranquil waters.
Before me lay a new business plan targeting a century-old automotive manufacturer on the brink of collapse. I would use the substantial funds acquired during my Blackwood campaign for an aggressive acquisition and restructuring.
The revenge was complete, but my war had just begun. I would build an empire greater than the Vanderbilts ever dreamed of.
The private line on my desk suddenly rang.
An encrypted call, no caller ID.
I answered without speaking.
Damian Blackwood's voice came through the receiver—tired but steady.
"I thought you might stay in New York," he said.
"New York doesn't suit me," I replied evenly. "Too many ghosts."
A moment of silence stretched between us.
"Blackwood stock rose five percent today," he said, changing subjects as if discussing the weather. "Exorcising ghosts takes time."
"Congratulations," I said, my voice carefully neutral.
Another silence fell between us—longer, heavier with unspoken words.
"Amelia," his voice suddenly softened, "are you still afraid of thunder?"
The question made my heart stutter painfully.
Thunder. My greatest fear at ten years old. During storms, I'd hide trembling under blankets until Damian would sneak into my room to keep me company through those frightening nights.
"No," I said. "I'm not afraid of anything anymore."
"That's good," he said softly. "That's good."
The line went dead.
I remained at the window, watching distant mountains frame Lake Geneva like dark eyebrows, staring at waters I once thought I'd never see again.
During these three months, I've often thought about those nights.
I remember sitting shoulder-to-shoulder before the computer, arguing over strategy; the unexpected tenderness in his eyes as he presented his terrible pasta; that night when all pretenses fell away and we found brief peace in each other's arms.
But what haunts me most is that final night.
The careful way he touched my face as if I might shatter; the tremor in his voice whispering my name; and in the morning light, that complex emotion in his eyes—love, pain, reluctance, all tangled together.
In that moment, I nearly betrayed my decade-long mission. Nearly stayed to see what we might build from the ruins.
But I left anyway.
Because our connection was forged in hatred; our bond formed through shared trauma; our embrace more like drowning people clutching at each other. Such beginnings could never lead to fairy tale endings.
But if there's another life...
If somewhere there exists a parallel world with no revenge or betrayal—just a boy who builds block castles and a girl who plays piano...
I touch my chest where his warmth seems to linger still.
The revenge is complete. But our story, perhaps, will never truly end.
Like secrets at the bottom of a lake, someday they'll rise again to the surface.
And I'll be waiting. Waiting for that call that might come someday, waiting to hear that familiar voice ask once more...
Are you still afraid of thunder?
——End——
