Gemma didn’t knock. She shoved the heavy oak door open with both hands.
Keyshawn Vargas sat behind his massive desk, a phone pressed to his ear. His head snapped up, face creasing into a scowl. He clamped a palm over the mouthpiece and shot her a look that screamed get the hell out.
Gemma stepped inside. She pushed the door shut and twisted the brass lock until it clicked.
She walked straight to the wall and ripped the telephone cord clean out of the socket.
The line went dead.
Keyshawn slammed both hands on the desk and exploded to his feet, his face flooding a violent, purplish red. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Gemma pulled out the leather guest chair, sat down, and crossed her legs. “Shut up if you don’t want the stock to crater at the opening bell.”
Keyshawn froze. The authority rolling off his daughter hit him like a physical blow. He blinked, scrambling to drag his arrogance back into place. “Stop this nonsense right now and get downstairs. You are embarrassing this family.”
Gemma picked up the heavy steel cigar cutter resting on the edge of his desk. She flipped it open and closed. The blades snapped with a clean, metallic bite.
“I can walk out the front door right now and cancel the merger.” She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
Keyshawn’s jaw tightened. “If you run, the cash flow for Vargas Holdings dries up by tomorrow afternoon. You’ll ruin us.”
A dry, humorless laugh scraped out of Gemma’s throat. “So you admit you’re selling me to cover your own failures.”
“It is for the future of the family trust!” Keyshawn jabbed a thick finger at her.
“You mean the trust that’s currently hiding three hundred and forty-two million in toxic offshore debt?”
Keyshawn’s pupils blew wide. The blood drained from his face so fast his lips turned gray. “Who told you that?” His voice dropped to a panicked whisper.
Gemma slammed the cigar cutter point-down into the mahogany desk. The blade bit deep, splintering the expensive wood.
“I want the trust terms amended. I want ten percent of the voting shares transferred to my name. Now.”
Keyshawn barked a desperate laugh. “You can’t even read a balance sheet, you stupid girl.”
Gemma pulled her phone from her clutch. She tapped the screen twice.
A voice filled the quiet study—Keyshawn’s voice, slurring, calling the Hubbard family a pack of uncultured thugs he was going to bleed dry.
Keyshawn lunged across the desk, hands clawing for the device.
Gemma leaned back effortlessly, letting him snatch nothing but air.
“I have this set on a five-minute delay.” Her thumb hovered over the screen. “Sign the shares over, or this goes to the Wall Street Journal.”
Keyshawn shook with rage. He pointed a trembling finger at her. “You ungrateful bitch. You are no daughter of mine.”
A sharp, phantom pain pierced Gemma’s chest. The hidden truth of her real bloodline pulsed like an old wound. She crushed it down instantly.
She pulled a printed document from her clutch and slid it across the desk. She placed his favorite fountain pen right next to it.
The intercom on the wall buzzed. The MC’s voice filtered through, politely requesting the bride make her way to the stairs.
The ticking clock hung in the air, thick and suffocating.
Keyshawn stared at the paper. He knew what Brion Hubbard would do to him if that recording leaked.
He snatched the pen, uncapped it with his teeth, and spit the cap onto the floor. He pressed the nib against the paper and signed his name with enough force to tear through the top sheet.
Gemma picked up the document. She checked the inked signature, confirmed the transfer, and canceled the email timer.
A genuine, predatory smile touched her lips.
She stood and smoothed the front of her silk dress.
“A pleasure doing business with you.”
She turned her back and walked toward the locked door.
