Chapter 6 - The Harbor Terrace Trap and the Price of Betrayal
The evening fog rolled heavily off Boston Harbor, blurring the glittering lights of the financial district into hazy amber smears against the dark sky.
I sat at a corner table on the private terrace of the Boston Harbor Hotel, wrapped in a long black cashmere coat, sipping a glass of sparkling water.
Across from me sat Nathan Brooks, casually reviewing a thin leather folder.
At precisely 7:58 p.m., the heavy glass door of the terrace clicked open.
Jasmine Cole hurried out into the chilly night air, her breath pluming in the wind, her expensive designer heels clicking frantically against the stone pavers.
She looked frantic.
Her hair was slightly disheveled, her makeup smeared around her eyes from what looked like hours of crying in a taxi.
She spotted us instantly and hurried over, pulling her white fur coat tightly around her shoulders.
“Claire,” Jasmine breathed out, sliding uninvited into the empty chair opposite me without waiting for an invitation.
“Thank God you agreed to meet me. You have no idea what kind of hell my life has become in the last twelve hours.”
I didn't offer her a seat.
I didn't offer her water.
I simply looked at her with calm, unblinking detachment.
“You said you had documents, Jasmine,” I said, my voice level and cold.
“Let’s see them before the cold air ruins your mascara.”
Jasmine flushed angrily, her fingernails digging into the leather handbag resting on her lap.
She unzipped it with jerky, frantic movements and pulled out a thick, printed stack of emails, bank statements, and wire transfer confirmations.
She slammed them down onto the marble tabletop between us.
“Read them,” Jasmine hissed, her voice trembling with bitterness.
“Every single one of those wire transfers was routed through dummy shell companies in the Cayman Islands. Aaron used Prescott Global operational capital to buy my penthouse in Back Bay, my Mercedes, and my jewelry collection. He told me the board approved it as part of his executive bonus package. He lied to me, Claire! He used me just like he used you!”
I picked up the top sheet of paper, scanning the account numbers and corporate signatures with professional ease.
Every single transaction was clearly documented.
Every fraudulent signature bore Aaron’s distinct, looping initials.
It was a federal indictment waiting to happen.
I gently set the papers back down on the table and looked up at Jasmine.
“This is very thorough,” I admitted quietly.
“It is,” Jasmine eagerly agreed, leaning forward, her eyes wide with desperate hope.
“And it’s all yours if you sign a formal agreement granting me full immunity from any civil or criminal liability regarding Prescott Global’s forensic audit. I want my name cleared, my apartment unattached by your lawyers, and a clean break so I can leave Boston by tomorrow morning.”
I didn't answer immediately.
I picked up my glass of sparkling water, took a slow sip, and set it back down.
Then I nodded toward Nathan.
Nathan calmly pulled a document from his leather briefcase and slid it across the table toward Jasmine.
Jasmine’s eyes lit up. She snatched the paper up, expecting to see her immunity clause.
Instead, her eyes scanned the heading, and the blood instantly drained completely from her face.
“What… what is this?” she whispered, her voice dropping to a horrified screech.
“This isn't an immunity agreement. This is a subpoena to testify as a cooperating witness for the federal prosecutor’s office!”
“It is,” I said smoothly, folding my hands over the table.
“You wanted a deal, Jasmine. You gave us the evidence of Aaron’s embezzlement, and in exchange, the state will allow you to avoid prison time—provided you stand in front of a federal judge and testify under oath to every single illegal transaction Aaron orchestrated.”
“No!” Jasmine screamed, slamming her hands down on the table and standing up so fast her chair screeched against the stone.
“You tricked me! You said you’d let me walk away clean!”
“I never said clean, Jasmine,” I replied, looking up at her with absolute indifference.
“I said you’d avoid prison time by doing the right thing. You chose to sleep with a married man for three years, knowing he was stealing corporate funds to fund your lifestyle. You don't get to walk away without paying the toll.”
Before Jasmine could scream another insult, two men in dark suits stepped quietly out of the shadows near the terrace exit, blocking her only path.
They weren't hotel security.
They were federal investigators working alongside Nathan’s legal team.
“Miss Cole,” one of the agents said smoothly, flashing a badge.
“You’ve been formally served. We’d like you to come with us down to the federal plaza to give your preliminary statement.”
Jasmine stared at the badge, then looked back at me with pure, unadulterated hatred burning in her eyes.
“You’re a monster, Claire,” she spat out, her voice shaking with rage as the agents gently took her by the arms and guided her away from the table.
“You planned all of this from the very beginning!”
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“No, Jasmine,” I called out softly as she was led toward the glass doors.
“I just let Aaron dig his own grave. He was the one who kept shoveling.”
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