Chapter 70 — The Trap He Sets
Victor filed his counterattack before sunrise, because panic likes to dress as urgency.
The claim was aggressive, polished, and dishonest in three expensive fonts.
Misuse of confidential information. Breach of confidence. Unlawful access. Commercial interference.
Injunctions against Hart Capital, me, and any adviser who had touched the evidence.
By 6:20, Marcus had read the whole thing twice. By 6:35, he was laughing.
Not loudly. Marcus never wasted noise. But enough that I looked up from my coffee.
“That good?” “That desperate.”
He slid the file across the table. “He alleges you infiltrated his home for the sole purpose of stealing commercial material.”
“I was hired.” “Yes.”
“Through an agency.” “Yes.”
“With references.” “Yes.”
“Approved by his household office.” “And authorised for study cleaning by Victor himself.”
Marcus tapped the page. “Which he has kindly placed in issue.”
I took a sip of coffee. “That seems unwise.”
“It is spectacular.” He turned another page.
Victor’s lawyers had included timelines, statements from household staff, and a draft witness list.
Ryan Hart. Lila Monroe.
I stared at the names longer than I meant to. Not because I feared them.
Because some stupidity deserves attention.
Marcus saw my face. “He wants to reunite the sinking ship.”
“Ships do that before breaking in half.”
At Lang Group, Victor stood in a temporary command room while lawyers explained the strategy.
“We do not need to win immediately,” one said. “We need to contaminate her evidence, slow her proposals, and frighten the board.”
Victor nodded. “And Ryan?”
“He will say she concealed her identity within the marriage and used private access to gather information.”
“Lila?” “She will say Ms Hart pressured her to cooperate.”
Claire stood near the door, arms crossed. “This is risky.”
Victor turned. “Everything is risky.”
“No,” Claire said. “This is narratively suicidal.”
The lawyer blinked. Victor did not like that sentence.
Claire continued anyway. “You are asking the public to sympathise with an executive because an employee heard what he said in front of her.”
“This is not about public sympathy.”
“It will be when the filing leaks,” Claire said. “And it will leak.”
Victor looked at the lawyer. The lawyer looked away.
Good lawyers understand law and inevitability. Sometimes they are not friends.
Ryan arrived just after eight, summoned like a misplaced tool. He looked at the claim summary and went still.
“You want me to sign a witness statement?” Victor said, “You want protection, do you not?”
Ryan read the first paragraph. My wife deliberately deceived me as to her identity, resources, and intentions.
His mouth went dry. It was almost true if stripped of every reason and every insult.
That was the danger of Victor’s lies. They wore fragments of fact.
Ryan looked up. “What do I get?”
Victor smiled faintly. “Guidance.”
“No.” The word surprised both of them.
Ryan put the page down. “Legal indemnity. Written. Personal. Not company. Not verbal.”
“If I sign anything, I want protection.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed. “You are becoming difficult.”
“I am becoming experienced.” For a second, Victor looked at him as if he finally noticed the scapegoat had teeth.
Across town, Marcus was already preparing our response. Employment contract. Access authorisation. Diana’s disclosures.
Lila’s statements. Ryan’s approvals. Preservation notices.
A legal wall, brick by brick. Then he reached the final page of Victor’s filing and stopped smiling.
“What?” I asked. He placed the page before me.
Victor was seeking an emergency injunction to stop Hart Capital from using contested evidence before the next board vote.
The hearing was set for forty-eight hours. Fast. Public. Dangerous.
The sort of theatre Victor had accused me of liking. Marcus said, “He is trying to freeze the board before you can move.”
I read the page once. Then again.
Outside, rain struck the glass like impatient fingers.
I closed the file. “Then we do not wait for the board.”
Marcus looked at me. “Eleanor.”
I picked up my phone and opened the shareholder action folder.
“If he wants forty-eight hours,” I said, “we give him twenty-four.”