Chapter 13 - The Receipts of Redemption
At precisely twelve o’clock, the grand press auditorium on the third floor of Thorne Tower was packed with over a hundred journalists, television crews, and financial analysts.
When Gabriel and I walked onto the stage together, the camera flashes were blinding. Gabriel wore an impeccably tailored navy suit; I wore an ivory sheath dress with sharp, minimalist lines and my grandmother’s simple, restored silver bracelet on my wrist—the only piece of jewelry Damian hadn't managed to pawn.
We took our seats behind the long mahogany table fitted with twenty microphones.
"We will not be taking questions," Gabriel announced, his deep voice carrying through the room without needing to be raised. The auditorium went instantly dead silent. "Miss Collins has a brief statement, after which Thorne Capital’s legal team will distribute documentation."
He turned to me, nodding once. His hand found mine beneath the table, his fingers interlacing with mine with solid, unwavering strength.
I leaned into the microphone.
"For the past twelve hours," I began, my voice steady, echoing clearly through the room, "spokespeople for Langford Developments and Mr. Damian Cross have portrayed me as an opportunist who preyed upon an innocent man."
I pressed a button on the small remote in my hand.
Behind us, a massive high-definition screen lit up.
"This is my personal bank statement from October 14th, three years ago," I said calmly. "It shows a withdrawal of $4,800—my entire emergency savings. Below it is the tuition receipt from Columbia Law School, paid directly to Damian Cross’s student account."
Gasps rippled through the press corps. The shutters clicked in rapid fire.
I clicked the remote again.
"This is the lease agreement for our basement apartment on 4th Avenue, signed solely by me, alongside four years of rent checks totaling $72,000—paid while Mr. Cross claimed zero income on his tax returns."
Click.
"These are medical billing timecards showing my eighty-hour work weeks, juxtaposed against credit card statements showing Mr. Cross’s purchases of bespoke suits, luxury watches, and dinners at Le Bernardin—all funded by my secondary accounts."
Click.
The screen shifted to a final image: a high-resolution screenshot of a text message sent at 3:17 AM six months ago.
*You don’t fit into my future anymore, Ava. You’re holding me back. Don’t contact me again.*
"Six months ago, Mr. Cross decided I was no longer useful," I continued, looking directly into the main network cameras. "Two weeks later, he was photographed on Victoria Langford’s yacht. Two nights ago, at the Astor Grand, he poured champagne on my dress because I was working as an event runner to pay for my grandmother’s memory care."
I paused, letting the silence crush the room.
"I am not a grifter. I am the woman who built the foundation Damian Cross stands on. And today, I am taking my bricks back."
I turned the remote off.
Gabriel leaned forward into his microphone, his eyes fixing on the cameras with terrifying, predatory delight.
"Thorne Capital has just acquired forty-nine percent of the non-voting debt of Cross & Associates Law," Gabriel announced calmly. "We have initiated forensic audits into every file Damian Cross has touched. Furthermore, any institution that continues to associate with the Langford Trust will find their Thorne credit facilities terminated effective immediately."
Gabriel stood up, pulling me to my feet beside him.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Gabriel said.
May you like
He didn't wait for applause or questions. He led me off the stage as the room erupted into a deafening roar of shouting reporters.
***