Chapter 230
Chapter 230:
Sterling was drowning. And she was the ocean.
“What are you looking at, kiddo?” Grandpa asked.
“Just the weather report,” she said, closing the laptop. “It’s going to be a cold winter for some people.”
Their pilot began the descent toward the heliport. As the ground rushed up to meet them, Aurora saw the black SUVs of her security team waiting on the tarmac below. And just pulling up to the gate, tires screeching slightly as it came to a halt, was a silver Audi with a license plate she knew too well.
The timing was impeccable. Almost telepathic.
She rubbed her arm, right over the crescent birthmark.
“He’s here,” she whispered to herself.
“Who?” Grandpa asked.
“Trouble,” she said, smiling. “The good kind.”
Times Square was a kaleidoscope of neon and noise. The giant curved screens flashed advertisements for soda, underwear, and Broadway shows.
Then, the ticker on the Nasdaq tower turned red.
BREAKING NEWS: THORNE INDUSTRIES FILES FOR BANKRUPTCY PROTECTION.
It was official. The titan had fallen.
Sterling Thorne walked out of his headquarters on 57th Street. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in a week. His tie was loose, his jaw covered in stubble. The “Wall Street Wunderkind” looked more like a cautionary tale.
A swarm of paparazzi descended on him. Flashbulbs popped like strobes.
“Mr. Thorne! Is it true the board ousted you?”
“Sterling! Did Aurora Vance plan this?”
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“Are the rumors true about the fake accounts?”
Sterling shoved a microphone away. “No comment! Get out of my face!”
He pushed a photographer. The man stumbled, his camera clattering to the pavement.
“Assault!” someone yelled. “He hit him!”
The video was on Twitter within seconds. #SterlingMeltdown.
Aurora watched it from her penthouse living room. The TV was muted, but Sterling’s rage was loud enough without sound. She took a sip of red wine. A bold Cabernet. It tasted like victory.
Her phone pinged. A secure email from the bankruptcy court.
Creditor Meeting Notice: Case 24-9001.
She was listed as a creditor. Through a shell company, she held a significant portion of Thorne Industries’ debt. She had bought it up for pennies on the dollar when everyone else was selling.
She didn’t want the money. She wanted the leverage.
In the hospital, Vivian watched the same news. She saw Sterling shoving the photographer.
Her eyes narrowed. She saw desperation. She saw a man with nothing left to lose.
“Perfect,” she whispered.
She grabbed her phone. The screen was shattered from her earlier tantrum, shards of glass missing from the corner, but it still worked. She couldn’t type well with her left hand, and the touch sensors were glitchy over the cracks.