Chapter 4 - The Puppet Master
The rain was pouring down in sheets when I stepped out onto Beacon Street. My driver held the door of the black executive sedan open for me. I slid into the leather interior, shaking the droplets from my coat.
Sitting in the corner seat was Paige, a glowing laptop resting on her knees.
"How did they take it?" she asked softly.
"They reacted exactly as expected," I said, leaning my head back against the headrest as the car pulled away into the Boston night. "Panicked, defensive, and desperate. Grant will spend the next twelve hours trying to figure out how I accessed his internal firm data. He won't run yet, because he still thinks he can access the two hundred and forty thousand dollars on Friday."
"And Celeste?" Paige held up her tablet, showing me a real-time feed of Celeste’s public Instagram account. "She just posted a story from a high-end jewelry store on Newbury Street. She’s trying on diamond tiaras for the maid-of-honor look. She tagged a sponsor and captioned it: 'Supporting my soul sister as she prepares for her fairytale. True love always wins.'"
I looked at the screen, watching Celeste tilt her head, her face heavily filtered, flashing a fake, practiced smile at three million followers.
"She’s desperate for the public association," I noted. "She needs the social proof of my wedding to secure her next investor round."
"Lucas just finished tracing her vendor accounts," Paige said, tapping the screen to bring up a spreadsheet. "Celeste booked a private jet to fly six luxury influencers in from Los Angeles for the rehearsal dinner. She put down a five-thousand-dollar deposit using a stolen credit card number belonging to one of her former event clients."
"That's wire fraud," I said.
"It gets worse. She’s hosting an 'exclusive pre-wedding salon' tomorrow afternoon at the Four Seasons. She invited thirty of Boston’s wealthiest women, charging them five hundred dollars a ticket under the guise of a 'charity fundraiser' for her non-profit foundation. Except the foundation’s tax exemption was revoked by the IRS six months ago for non-filing."
I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the cold, hard logic of the strategy settling into my chest. In crisis management, when an opponent is committing multiple offenses simultaneously, you don't stop them one by one. You let them build their own mountain of evidence until the weight of it collapses the foundation entirely.
"Paige," I said, opening my eyes. "Connect me to the District Attorney's financial crimes unit."
"Are we filing now?"
"No," I replied. "I want to invite the Chief Investigator as my personal guest to the wedding reception."
Paige's eyes widened. "Avery... you're going to let them get all the way to the altar?"
"The altar is where vows are made, Paige," I said coldly. "And the reception is where debts are collected."
Ten minutes later, my phone vibrated with an incoming call from an unlisted number. I answered and placed it on speaker.
"Avery?" Celeste’s breathy, manic voice filled the quiet interior of the car. "Oh my god, babe! Are you okay? Grant just called me in a complete state! He said you had some kind of intense panic attack at your parents' house and started saying crazy things about his investments?"
I looked out the window at the blurred yellow streetlights reflecting on the wet pavement.
"I’m fine, Celeste," I said, softening my voice to sound tired, fragile, and overwhelmed. "It was just... the stress of the wedding. Everything is hitting me at once."
I heard a audible sigh of relief over the line, followed by the faint rustle of shopping bags.
"Oh, sweetie, I knew it!" Celeste purred, her tone instantly shifting back to her patronizing, motherly act. "Planning a wedding of this scale is completely overwhelming. You've been working too hard at the firm. You're seeing ghosts everywhere. Grant was so worried about you, babe. He thought you were breaking down."
"I think I am breaking down, Celeste," I lied, letting a subtle tremor enter my voice. "I don't know what's real anymore. My parents are pressing me about money, Grant is stressed about his business... I feel like I'm losing my mind."
"Listen to me, Avery," Celeste said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "You need to trust Grant. He loves you so much. And I’m here for you, babe. Always. You just need to let us handle the hard stuff. Did... did you execute the bank transfer for his fund?"
I smiled into the dark interior of the car. "Yes. The wire was sent. Two hundred and forty thousand dollars."
I could hear the physical intake of breath on the other end of the line—the sound of a predator realizing the prey had walked directly into the trap.
"Oh, thank god," Celeste breathed out, unable to hide the sheer relief in her voice. "That’s... that’s wonderful, Avery. That shows so much maturity and commitment. Everything is going to be perfect. The dress, the flowers, the venue... it’s going to be the night of your life."
"I know it is, Celeste," I said softly. "You’ve worked so hard on this wedding. I could never have done this without you."
"That’s what best friends are for, babe," she said sweetly. "Now go get some rest. I’ll see you at the venue rehearsal tomorrow afternoon. I have a huge surprise planned for you."
"I have a surprise for you too, Celeste," I said. "Goodnight."
I ended the call and handed the phone back to Paige.
"Is the press release finalized?" I asked.
May you like
"Drafted and ready," Paige confirmed. "It contains full documentation of Grant’s security fraud, Celeste’s forged vendor invoices, and the offshore account structures. Marcus has embargoed it until Saturday evening at eight o'clock."
"Change the embargo time," I ordered, turning to look at her. "Set it for Saturday evening at eight-fifteen. Right after the first dance."
