Inheritance ✔

Chapter 16 - Fallout

Laurier Ashford's POV

My throat went dry the moment I saw Renzo's face.

He didn't even have to speak.

I knew.

The look in his eyes—wide, stunned, then hardening into something sharp and cold—was all I needed.

"They just published Midas," he said.

For a second, the world stopped spinning.

No sound. No thought. Just the weight of those four words crashing through my chest.

I felt the air leave my lungs.

"Where?" I asked.

"International finance forum. It's already spreading." His thumb moved fast on his phone. "Copies uploaded to three mirror sites. There's a thread on Reddit breaking it down clause by clause."

Clause by clause.

Jesus Christ.

I stepped away from Clara, who had gone deathly quiet on the couch.

"That file wasn't meant to exist in the public eye," I murmured.

"It does now," Renzo said grimly. "And it's under your name."

Back at the Ashford Tower, chaos had already begun.

The building's lobby was flooded with press and reporters, held back only by a rapidly assembled security barricade. Phones wouldn't stop ringing. My publicist, Iris, was already red in the face trying to coordinate a response.

I pushed through it all, flanked by Renzo and two plainclothes guards.

"They've sent you three statements to approve," Iris said, keeping pace. "Damage control, temporary leave of absence, and legal denial. The board's in emergency session. SEC is already poking around."

I stopped mid-step.

"Tell them I'll address the board personally in one hour," I said. "And I'm not signing anything."

Iris paled. "Laurier—"

"I said what I said."

We reached the private elevator. The doors closed. I finally exhaled.

Renzo stood beside me, shoulders tense.

"They're going to turn on you," he said. "Fast."

"I know."

"They'll protect the company. Not you."

"I said I know."

I looked straight ahead at the elevator doors. My reflection stared back—composed, bloodless, barely recognizable.

This wasn't a scandal.

It was an execution.

The boardroom smelled like expensive coffee and subtle panic.

Eleven members sat at the long mahogany table, each one with a copy of the leaked Midas documents printed, annotated, and tabbed like evidence in a trial. I could feel the weight of their judgment before I even took my seat.

Renzo stood near the back of the room, silent but watchful.

"Let's get one thing straight," I said, breaking the silence. "The Midas files were real. But they were historical. Signed off under my father's direction. I inherited those contracts. I did not create them."

"That's not how it reads," Director Mahoney cut in. "It has your name, Laurier. Your signature. You're the one listed as the overseeing party."

I met his eyes without blinking. "Because my father stepped down before the final transfer was processed. The paper trail reflects the transition, not the origin."

Another member—Lara Reyes—sighed. "That's going to be hard to sell to the public. Or to the government."

"Then we don't sell it," I said. "We redirect it."

"To who?" she demanded. "Your father? He's untouchable."

"Not anymore."

That got their attention.

Renzo's voice was calm from behind me. "We have documents tying the original Midas shell accounts to Henry Ashford's personal lawyer. If we release those quietly through a third party..."

"They'll connect the dots," I finished. "And leave me out of it."

"You're throwing your own father under the bus?" Mahoney asked, incredulous.

I smiled faintly. "If it saves the company, yes. Wouldn't you?"

They didn't answer.

Because they would. Every one of them.

Two hours later, I was alone in my office.

The sky outside was gray. Heavy. The kind of sky that promised rain but held it in like a threat.

I hadn't touched the coffee on my desk.

I was still staring at the headline on my tablet.

"Ashford Empire Built on Corruption? Midas Leaks Send Shockwaves Through Financial World."

Below it: a grainy photo of me walking out of a car, flanked by security. The subheadline was worse.

"Ashford heiress linked to laundering operation. Public outcry mounts."

I closed the screen.

I didn't realize I was shaking until Renzo walked in and quietly set a blanket over my shoulders.

"You're cold," he said.

"I'm fine."

He didn't argue.

He just sat across from me, watching.

"You shouldn't be here," I said softly.

"I go where you go."

"This could end everything. The company. My name. You could be tied to this."

"I don't care."

I looked at him.

Really looked.

He wasn't blinking. Wasn't flinching. Just sitting there, like an anchor in the middle of a storm I couldn't stop.

"You should," I whispered.

He stood slowly, then came around to my side of the desk. I turned my chair, letting him come closer until his hand found mine.

"You're allowed to fall apart," he murmured. "Just not alone."

And that was what undid me.

Not the board. Not the press. Not the betrayal.

Him.

His voice. His touch. His stillness.

I didn't cry.

But I let myself lean forward, head pressed against his chest, and I let the silence hold us together.

That night, my father called.

I answered on the third ring.

His voice was clipped. "So it's out."

"Yes."

A long pause.

"I warned you about trusting too many people."

"And I warned you this day would come," I snapped.

Another pause.

Then: "Do what you have to. But if you turn me in—"

"I already have," I said coldly.

His breath hitched.

I didn't wait to hear more.

I hung up.

And I didn't regret it.