“What is this?” a board member shouted.
“This,” I said into the mic, my voice cold and steady, “is the anatomy of a frame job.”
The screens cycled rapidly. The forged bank transfers. The emails from Tessa’s private server paying off the hotel actor. But I didn’t stop there. I pressed the button again.
The screens shifted to the medical documents. The Zurich clinic. Grant’s leukemia diagnosis. And a photo of an eleven-month-old baby girl hooked to a monitor.
“My ex-wife did not betray me,” I projected over the rising murmur of the crowd. “My fiancée, Tessa Whitmore, orchestrated it. She did it to steal my infant daughter, Clara, to use her as an illegal, involuntary bone marrow farm for her dying father.”
Chaos erupted. Chairs scraped backward. Reporters in the back of the room frantically raised their cameras.
“Cut the mics! Cut the power!” Grant roared, abandoning his statesman persona. He lunged toward me, but I shoved him back.
