Page 41 of Deceit & Desire

“You got it,” Stanley said, already sounding like he was halfway out the door.

“And Greg, keep a close eye on his market activity,” I continued, feeling my grip on the situation tighten with every word. “If he so much as tries to adjust, we’ll be the first to know.”

“On it,” Greg said, his tone all business.

I took a steadying breath; the plan taking full shape in my mind. “When the time’s right, I’m calling him myself. I’m going to tell him he needs to go home to California and start putting out the fires he started because he fucked with the wrong girl and the wrong ranch here in Montana.”

Stanley chuckled, low and approving. “You sure I can’t be on the line for that one?”

Roman laughed out loud beside me, his eyes fixed on the road, but there was a fierce pride there too. I smiled, already imagining Michaelson’s face when he realized just how far out of his depth he was.

“If I have to record it for posterity, I will,” I said, unable to hold back a grin. “This is our chance to put him on the defensive. I’ll hit him where it hurts if I have to for what he’s done to me, my father, and to Roman.”

The men gave their agreements, and we all hung up. I leaned back in my seat, feeling the satisfaction settle in like a weight I’d been waiting to hold for a long time.

Roman glanced at me as he pulled up to a stop sign. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

I shrugged, unable to hide the smirk on my face. “What can I say? Sometimes, the only way to deal with a problem is to make sure it’s too busy to deal with you.”

When Roman parked the truck at the accountant’s office, I swung out of it like a hellhound on the scent of blood, and Roman moved behind me like silent Death just waiting to be unleashed.

The accountant, Mr. Bush, was sitting at his desk eating lunch when I waltzed in.

“I’m busy. Come back later.”

“I think you’ll want to fucking hear me out unless you’d like me to call Deputy Blackwell and press charges against you for the embezzlement I uncovered in these documents this morning.”

I held up the financial reports for Twisted Creek Ranch and smacked them down on his desk, deciding balls to the wall was the way to go here. I was certain I was right, and judging by the way he paled and started sweating, I hit the nail right on the head.

“I—I—I—I don’t know what you’re?—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Roman growled from behind me. “Have some fucking dignity, man. You’re caught. Don’t try to lie about it.”

“David Michaelson made me do it. He doesn’t take no for an answer.”

“I’m sure lining your pocket in the process didn’t hurt your feelings, though, did it?” I offered him a bitter smile that was pure acid as I sat down across from him and drummed my fingers on the financial reports.

“Are you going to go to the police?”

I shook my head and spoke through gritted teeth. Sometimes you have to sacrifice a rook if you want to get a checkmate. “Not if you do exactly what I tell you to do today. First, spill the beans, shithead.”

I sat at the accountant’s desk, a simmering anger bubbling up as I scanned the financial documents in front of me. The embezzlement was obvious, a bold theft hidden in plain sight, siphoning funds straight out of Twisted Creek Ranch. But it wasn’t just greed behind this scheme; this accountant was working with David Michaelson. Michaelson had paid him to funnel money away from us, hoping to drive my father into debt so he could swoop in and buy the ranch for a fraction of its worth.

My fingers tapped rhythmically on the desk as the pieces clicked into place. This wasn’t just a betrayal; it was an ambush. I took a deep breath, letting my anger harden into resolve.

“I have a plan,” I said, catching the accountant’s eye. He shifted nervously, no doubt sensing he was about to regret underestimating me.

“I want you to call David Michaelson,” I told him, my voice steady and cold. “And put it on speaker.”

He hesitated, but after a moment’s pause, he picked up the phone and dialed, the line ringing until that familiar, arrogant voice from so many action movies came through.

“What can I do for you today, Oliver?” Michaelson asked, his tone practically oozing smugness.

I leaned forward, my voice sharp and unyielding. “Actually, this is Zoe Brandt, and I’ve been looking into your properties in California, David. Looks like you’ve been overextending yourself financially. I’ve taken the liberty of orchestrating a buyout of your real estate back home… see how you like a taste of your own medicine.”

Silence stretched over the line. I could practically feel him reeling, and it sent a surge of vicious satisfaction through me.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he spat, finally finding his voice.

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