90

The morning dawned gray and rain-drenched, sheets of water pouring down the windows of the Coleman-Hartmann household. Within, Liana Coleman bent over the glass-topped desk in her father's study, feet curled into the plush carpet. Her computer glowed with a government emblem: "Notice of Investigation: U.S. Attorney's Office". The subheading below stated, Hartmann Foundation–Cole Technologies Partnership Under Investigation for Fraud Allegations.

Her heart quickened as she scrolled through the document. A subpoena had been issued overnight demanding all emails, ledgers, and board memos for the past five years. Marginalia—"Possible RICO implications," "Get in forensic auditors pronto"—threatened to put her family's reputation through a public wringer.

She planted her palms into her eyes. Reporters had already begun to sniff around. Her phone buzzed: a text from Alex—Board in an uproar. Call you in ten.

In the gleaming high-rise boardroom of Cole Technologies, Alexander Cole stood before his directors, his tall figure rigid beneath the fluorescent lighting. Men and women in crisp suits exchanged wary looks around the oval table. One of the elder board members, Harrison Muir, cleared his throat.

"Mr. Cole," Muir began, voice clipped, "the U.S. Attorney's involvement in Hartmann's affairs sullies our partnership. How do we account for climbing into bed with them when our own reputation is in question?"

Alex took a breath, his voice calm. "Our priority is damage control. A joint defense will reassure regulators and investors of our due diligence." He tapped the table. "Dumping the partnership now opens us up to charges of collusion."

A murmur ran through the room. Another director, Sharifa Khan, leaned forward. "But with fraud and RICO involved, our stock could collapse. Some of us think your personal relationship is blinding you to what's best for the company."

He kept her gaze steady. "I understand the concern. That's why I've set up emergency funding sources and legal counsel to protect ColeTech. But loyalty—" He caught himself. "Strategic partnerships mean standing by people who get attacked, provided we keep everything above board." 

There was silence, the board weighing his words. Thunder rumbled outside—a mirror of the storm brewing around him.

Back at the house, Liana and Ruth met with their PR director, Simone Park, in the house's makeshift media war room. Monitors displayed news sites with headlines screaming "Corporate Conspiracy" and "Family Fortune Under Fire."

Simone pointed to one headline: "Insiders Say Hartmann's Funds Disappeared Into Cole Technologies". "We have two choices: bury the story or own it outright. The first—bribing reporters to sit on the story—buys time. The second—preemptive admission—has immediate shock value."

Ruth, seated at the head of the table, folded her hands together. "Simone, how much would it cost to keep this down for a week while we make motions?"

Simone tapped on her tablet. "$200,000 in retainer fees, with quiet payments to key columnists. Enough to keep them off our scent until the court hearing." She gazed into Liana's eyes. "The fastest way to control the message."

Liana's stomach twisted. "Do it," she finally said. "We can't afford any more leaks."

Meanwhile, Alex sat with his own communications team in an adjacent office. He corralled the emergency investors he'd lined up: two VC funds and three family offices. In quick succession, conference calls burst to life on his screen. By noon, commitments for fifteen million dollars were secured, pending structured board seats and oversight provisions.

By afternoon, Ruth had convened a group of senior female executives—businesswomen she'd mentored over the decades—at her foundation's headquarters. In a library-paneled conference room, they formed a circle of empathy and clout.

"Your voices carry weight," Ruth said, her gaze on seven women in suits tailored to perfection. "Malachi Voss's lawsuit paints Leo as a fraudster. I want you to testify in court to his integrity, to his philanthropic record, and to your personal experiences working for him."

The women nodded, some blinking back tears. One of them, Dr. Elena Vargas, the foundation’s health initiatives director, spoke up: “He’s funded hundreds of clinics in underserved areas. I’ll go to Washington to testify in a heartbeat.”

Another, Marissa Chen, head of education programs, added: “His personal guarantee funded our scholarship initiative after the banks pulled out. I’ll sign any affidavit.”

Liana noticed their flower of solidarity, and a flame of hope guttered. They were mobilizing all their assets—legal, financial, moral—to stave off collapse. 

Late that evening, the building had emptied of staff. Hallway lights cast off dripping-wet floors a quietude profounder than midnight. In a deserted hallway of Cole Technologies' research spire, Liana hurried between offices with Alex close behind, both juggling tablets full of revised filings.

She bumped into him as they turned a corner, and he caught her arm. “Be careful,” he murmured, urgency and something softer in his eyes.

She looked up, breathless. “I’m scared,” she confessed, voice barely a whisper.

His grip tightened lightly. “I know.” He brushed a stray curl from her cheek, his fingers warm against her skin. Liana’s heart thudded, her breath shallow.

Alex leaned, lips brushing hers in a fierce, desperate kiss. The harsh lights of the hallway faded as Liana melted into his arms, returning his kiss with equal intensity. Their hands collided—the world narrowed to the rhythm of each other's heartbeat.

Yet in the heat of passion, guilt stabbed at Liana's heart. She was remembering her father, her mother, the mentors who relied upon her strength and clarity. She was betraying them with this fierce intimacy. She pulled away with a muffled cry, trembling breath.

They were inches apart, foreheads practically touching, eyes shining in the dim light. "We—this can't," she whispered. "Not tonight."

Alex’s expression flickered between regret and longing. He nodded, voice husky. “You’re right.”

Her chest heaved as she straightened her blouse. “Don’t let me forget what’s at stake.”

He gave her a small, painful smile. “I won’t.”

They parted in silence, their footsteps echoing opposite directions down the corridor; each step carried the weight of forbidden desire and unspoken promises.

That night, the Coleman-Hartmann mansion lay shrouded in a cover of restless dreams. Liana tossed beneath her silk sheets, her mind ablaze with tomorrow's deadlines: deposit transfers, press releases, witness depositions. Yet beneath the logistical nightmare, her thoughts drifted back to Alex's arms, his lips, the electric warmth of their stolen kiss.

She pressed her hand to her chest as tears glistened on her lashes. What am I doing? she questioned herself. I'm risking everything—my family's trust, our survival—for a temporary thing. Sleep eluded her as guilt and passion warred in her tormented heart.

Across town, in his penthouse, Alex stood looking out across the neon grid of the city below. His phone lay on the bedside table—unread messages from his board, querying his priorities; from his lawyers, demanding updates. But his gaze kept drifting back to the hallway in his mind, where Liana had trembled against him. He closed his eyes, the memory bittersweet.

He rose and strode to the minibar, where he poured a whiskey shot. The amber liquor quivered when he drank, its flames matching the turmoil in his chest. She's trouble, he warned himself, not from her family's enemies, but from the fragile line they'd crossed. Business and feeling were a dangerous combination—and yet, the flavor of her lips made him crave another.

He set the glass down, pacing on the hardwood floor. Tomorrow, I'll need all my friends. I can't afford weakness. Yet weakness had overtaken him in the deserted corridor—and he did not regret it. He only feared its power to ruin them both.