Page 100 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
Tyson enters without knocking, two cups of black coffee in hand. He sets one before me without comment, studies my face—the shadows beneath my eyes, the stillness that has calcified around me since the decision was made.
"You're sure," he says. Not a question.
"Yes."
The single syllable hangs between us—everything I am, distilled to its essence. A word that sounds like finality.
I turn from the window, back to the war room we've constructed in my office. Three monitors display cascading data, each screen cataloging Megan's systematic dismantling. Financial positions. Network connections. Personal vulnerabilities. The anatomy of an empire soon to collapse.
"Whitman Group confirmed withdrawal," Tyson says, taking his seat across from me. "They'll announce at opening bell."
"Time?"
"Ninety minutes."
I nod once, fingers tracing the edge of a file—physical evidence of digital sins. Everything Megan thought was buried, exhumed with surgical precision. Not for vengeance. For insurance.
"Collins has the rest?"
"Ready when you are." Tyson's voice carries a note of caution. "The SEC alert is drafted. All we need is your authorization."
My hand stills on the file. For four years, I've held this card—the power to unmake what Megan built from the ruins of what we created together. Held it, studied it, kept it holstered. A weapon undrawn remains a threat, not a consequence.
Today, I pull the trigger.
"Send it."
Tyson taps his phone once. A text disappears into the digital ether. Somewhere, in an office across the city, Collins unleashes what we've architected—not chaos, but calculated collapse. The dismantling of Megan Ardano through methods she taught me to perfect.
"The personal accounts?"
"Frozen as of 3 A.M. Her signature removed from the family trust at 4:22. Private asset liquidation began at 5:15." Tyson's precision mirrors my own—the comfort of numbers in a moment defined by emotion. "She'll discover it when she wakes."
"And her network?"
"Contacted. Every one." He slides a tablet toward me, names highlighted in red, yellow, green. Status indicators. Pressure points. "The cousin in Miami was particularly responsive. Apparently, blood isn't thicker than the promise of destruction."
I scroll through the list, noting the precision of the execution. Her parents' names glow bright red—the most decisive severance.
"Her father?"
"He understood the stakes immediately." Tyson's voice drops lower, satisfaction threading through professional detachment. "One call about what would happen to the Ardano Medical Foundation's board appointments if they remained connected to her. He issued a statement within the hour."
I nod once. Victor Ardano—a man who spent fifty years building a reputation he couldn't bear to watch burn in a day. The statement would be carefully worded: public concern, family disappointment, temporary separation while‘matters are resolved.’
Permanent exile disguised as temporary distance.
"Her mother?"
"Harder to reach. Collins made it clear we'd dismantle their social standing brick by brick." A slight pause. "She called twice after. Refused to leave a message."
Eleanor Ardano always preserved plausible deniability—voiceless calls that could be claimed as attempts at reconciliation if needed. A woman who valued position above blood.
Like mother, like daughter.
I study the list—people who attached themselves to Megan's orbit, fed from her success, sheltered in her shadow. People now running from the flames I've ignited around her. Some guilty, others merely inconvenient obstacles. I don't hesitate over the names of the innocent. Don't flinch from the collateral damage. Not today. Not with what's at stake.
My eyes catch on a separate section of names: the RSV leadership team.
