THE DISCARDED CEO

Bab 5 - The Imposter's True Face

The stale odor of urine, rusted metal, and seawater that lingered over San Francisco's harbor was far from Christian Miller's favorite environment.

But the fear squeezing his throat over the mountain of gambling debts he owed in Las Vegas was far more suffocating than anything the waterfront could offer.

His expensive suit was already beginning to look worn as he slipped through the side entrance of a private bar called The Blind Crow, tucked away in a dim corner of the docks.

"You're three minutes late."

The raspy voice drifted through a cloud of cigar smoke from the darkest corner of the room.

Marcus Blackwood.

The CEO of Blackwood Corp, the Miller family's sworn rival for the past two decades.

His face was as hard as granite, flanked by two bodyguards whose motionless stares alone were enough to intimidate most people into collapsing.

Christian swallowed.

"I had to make sure no one was following me. The Miller family is... sensitive right now. My father, Arthur Miller, is practically losing his mind over yesterday morning's stock collapse."

"That's because Arthur is a fool."

Marcus leaned forward.

The dim light stretched his shadow across the floor like a predator preparing to strike.

"He threw away his strongest piece."

His eyes narrowed.

"Did you bring what I asked for?"

"Take it easy, Blackwood." Christian forced confidence into his trembling voice. "Where's my compensation? My debt at the Flamingo Casino isn't just a few hundred thousand dollars. If I don't pay within forty-eight hours, I'm dead."

Marcus tossed a tablet across the table.

It slid to a stop in front of Christian.

The screen displayed incoming transfers to an offshore account invisible to U.S. financial authorities.

Christian's eyes widened.

All those zeros were intoxicating.

"Ten million dollars up front," Marcus said flatly. "You'll receive the rest after tomorrow's auction is awarded to me."

He extended his hand.

"Now give me the damn drive."

Christian reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a black flash drive.

For a brief moment, he squeezed it tightly, as though reluctant to surrender the last piece of authority belonging to his adopted family.

Then the memory of debt collectors pointing guns at him shattered his hesitation.

He slid the drive across the table.

"It contains the harbor logistics bid details and every weakness in the Miller Group's bidding strategy."

A hollow laugh escaped him.

"You know what that means."

Marcus smiled.

"It means tomorrow is Arthur Miller's funeral."

He stood.

"I've never liked doing business with traitors like you."

His smile widened.

"But this investment is far too sweet to pass up."

He turned toward the exit.

"Watch your back on the way out, you little bastard."

Marcus disappeared into the darkness of the harbor with his bodyguards.

Christian released a long breath.

He loosened his tie and leaned back against the cracked leather booth, an expression of grotesque satisfaction spreading across his face.

To him, life was nothing more than one elaborate scheme after another.

If Arthur wanted to believe he was the perfect son, so be it.

The old man wanted to deceive himself with fantasies of pure blood and a long-lost heir.

Christian was simply giving him exactly what he wanted.

A hidden phone tucked inside his jacket suddenly vibrated.

It was an unregistered number.

Christian frowned before answering.

"Yeah?"

"Everything clean?"

The voice on the other end was rough and direct.

"Relax," Christian whispered. "I just transferred my insurance policy through Blackwood. The backup money will arrive tonight."

He lowered his voice even further.

"And you? There's really nothing left at the Portland hospital?"

He hesitated.

"That damn DNA test... we got lucky. Miller was too arrogant to suspect anything."

The caller chuckled quietly.

"Arthur is drunk on his own desires. If he wants to believe trash like you is his lost pearl, it doesn't take much to convince a laboratory assistant to swap a DNA sample."

Another laugh.

"The real one is probably frozen beneath a pile of ice somewhere... or wandering the streets as a homeless nobody with no history."

Christian smirked.

"Hell, I think old man Miller would actually prefer it if the real son were dead."

His voice turned cold.

"Fine by me. Before the Miller bubble bursts, I'll already be sunbathing in Grand Cayman."

He paused.

"No more communication until tomorrow's bidding is over."

Click.

The line went dead.

What Christian didn't realize was that less than five hundred feet away, inside an unmarked gray surveillance van, four operators sat silently wearing soundproof headsets.

Every breath he had taken had been captured by a high-frequency directional microphone belonging to the Vance Group.

Beside one of the transmission monitors sat Julian Vance.

He wore an identical earpiece, listening to the remainder of Christian's secret conversation with an expression so calm it barely seemed human.

"So that's how it is, Young Master," the communications officer reported carefully.

"They're not even worthy of being considered your true enemies."

He looked at another monitor.

"Just a leech feasting on a dying body."

Julian removed the earpiece and set it gently beside the frequency analyzer.

"So."

His eyes remained fixed on Christian's grainy black-and-white silhouette leaving the bar and heading toward a waiting taxi.

"A forged DNA test in Portland."

"A stolen identity."

He smiled faintly.

"A small-time con artist with remarkable courage."

He paused.

"Trying to bait a hungry shark."

"The report has already been secured in Mr. Thomas's vault, Young Master," the assistant replied. "Tonight's recording will be invaluable once the bankruptcy proceedings begin, or when the DNA confrontation takes place at the Metropolitan Club."

Julian folded his arms.

"Let the leech enjoy his feast tonight."

"There'll be plenty of time tomorrow at the harbor logistics auction."

"Give him room to perform his grand betrayal."

"I want Arthur completely destroyed alongside the meaningless pride he calls his biological son."

Meanwhile, inside the luxurious apartment Arthur had recently given him, Christian danced around the living room while pouring himself another glass of expensive champagne.

As far as he was concerned, every problem in his life had vanished.

The casino debts.

His stolen identity.

The threat of prison.

Gone with the sea breeze.

He laughed loudly.

His eyes drifted toward the collection of Miller watches he had purchased using company funds.

The polished timepieces gleamed brighter than anything else in San Francisco that night.

Tomorrow, he imagined, he would officially install himself as the company's new director while Arthur watched Marcus Blackwood crush the Miller Group using the confidential information Christian had sold.

But he had overlooked the most important variable in the city.

Julian.

The man who had calmly removed his suit jacket in the ballroom had never been a beggar.

Not even for a single minute.

It was Julian who had quietly lured the brokers of confidential logistics information until Marcus willingly stepped into a web of illicit funding.

None of this was coincidence.

It was orchestration.

The work of Apex, a silent machine that consumed its prey without making a sound.

"Bad luck is nothing more than the result of bad choices," Christian laughed.

His reflection twisted grotesquely in the crystal champagne glass.

"Life is all about who wears the better golden mask."

He raised his glass.

"Sorry, Arthur."

"You were never anything more than my personal stepping stone."

The golden mask Christian wore shone brilliantly beneath the lights of his luxurious apartment.

Behind it, naked greed and deceit no longer needed to hide.

He believed no one in the world was capable of reaching the darkest corner of his secrets.

Arthur was blind.

The Sterlings were deceived.

And his so-called adopted brother had surely disappeared into obscurity.

But a far greater shock was already counting down on Thomas's monitors.

When the morning sun rose over the faces of those responsible for the Miller family's destruction, the identity Christian had stolen and the bloodline he had fabricated would become the very blade pointed back at him by Julian Vance.

In twelve hours, it would not be harbor logistics that Christian placed on the auction block.

It would be his own head.

Yet the leech had gorged himself so completely on dreams of a false future that he never felt the trap closing around his own heart.

He drew what would become the happiest, and shortest, carefree breath of his life.

By tomorrow, mercy would no longer exist.

As dawn slowly crept across Christian's window, he finished the last of his champagne.

The liar's time was almost over.