Chapter 7 - The Slip of the Tongue
Dr. Morgan caught himself almost instantly, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses with a quick, practiced motion. But to Maya, who had spent seven months learning to read the subtle body language of wealthy people who thought no one was watching them, the reaction was as loud as a gunshot.
“An investigator?” Eleanor Vance purred, leaning back in her leather chair and crossing her arms. She cast a dismissive, patronizing glance over Maya's clothes. “Marcus, darling, the boy had a food allergy attack at a dinner party. Isn't hiring a personal investigator a bit... dramatic? You're disturbing company operations.”
“Caleb doesn't have food allergies, Eleanor,” Marcus said smoothly, taking his seat at the head of the table. Maya remains standing directly behind his right shoulder, her eyes fixed on Dr. Morgan. “Which is why I find it fascinating that someone managed to introduce an organophosphate compound into his drink.”
The room went completely silent.
Julian Drake, the tech director, blinked in surprise. “Organophosphate? You mean... a pesticide? Are you saying someone tried to poison your son?!”
“That's outrageous!” Arthur Sterling slammed a hand onto the glass table. “In Blackwood House? Under your own security detail? Marcus, if news of an assassination attempt leaks to the markets, our stock will drop twenty percent by noon!”
“The stock market is the least of my concerns, Arthur,” Marcus replied, his voice dangerously soft. “The poison was introduced via a high-concentration hydrocarbon solvent. The kind used in high-end pharmaceutical manufacturing.”
Dr. Morgan cleared his throat, leaning forward with an airy, condescending chuckle. “Marcus, as a chemist, I must advise you not to jump to wild conclusions based on preliminary maid gossip. Organophosphates are incredibly volatile. If someone had actually used an industrial-grade solvent in a closed ballroom, the scent of bitter almonds would have filled the entire head table instantly. The boy would have suffered massive skin blistering before he even swallowed it.”
Maya felt a jolt of ice run through her veins.
She stepped forward, placing her hands flat on the glass table directly across from Dr. Morgan.
“I never said it smelled like bitter almonds, Dr. Morgan,” Maya said, her voice cutting through the heavy air.
Morgan froze. His pale eyes snap to hers.
“Nor did Mr. Blackwood mention that the solvent was scented,” Maya continued, her voice growing stronger with every word. "In fact, raw organophosphates used in standard agriculture have a skunk-like, sulfur odor. Only specially refined laboratory variants —the kind developed in private pharmaceutical facilities—are treated with bitter almond maskers to conceal the chemical smell."
Dr. Morgan's face drained of color so fast he looked like a ghost sitting in an executive chair.
“I... I was merely speaking generally,” Morgan stammered, his fingers twitching against his polished pen. “It's common toxicological knowledge—”
“It isn't common knowledge,” Maya interrupted coldly. “My uncle nearly died from commercial organophosphates. It smelled like rotten eggs and kerosene. The only reason a person would immediately specify a bitter almond masker is if they personally translated the batch!”
“This is absurd!” Morgan stood up violently, knocking his leather chair backward into the floor-to-ceiling glass window. “Marcus, are you seriously letting this low-class maid interrogate a senior board director?! I have served this company for fifteen years!”
“Sit down, Henry,” Marcus commanded.
He didn't raise his voice, but the sheer, crushing weight of his tone forced Morgan to freeze in place.
Marcus turned his head slowly, looking up at Maya with an expression of profound pride. Then he looked back at Morgan.
“You gave it to Thomas, didn't you?” Marcus said quietly. “Thomas didn't have the brains to synthesize an odorless toxin. He came to you because you ran our pharmaceutical research division in Cambridge. What did you promise him, Henry? The CEO seat once I was buried?”
Morgan's mouth worked silently, but no words came out. He looked at the other three directors, searching for support, but Arthur Sterling, Eleanor Vance, and Julian Drake were already sliding their chairs away from him as if he were covered in plague.
“Security,” Marcus said softly.
The heavy double doors of the boardroom swung open. Vance and four armed security operatives stepped inside, their faces set in stone.
Morgan panicked. In a desperate, pathetic attempt to escape, he grabbed a heavy glass water decanter from the table and hurled it toward Maya's head.
“Look out!” Marcus barked, leaping from his chair.
Maya didn't freeze. Growing up in a cramped house with three wild younger brothers had given her lightning-fast reflexes. She ducked smoothly beneath the flying glass. The decanter shattered against the oak wall behind her, showering the floor with crystal shards.
Before Morgan could take another step toward the private balcony exit, Marcus was on him.
May you like
The billionaire grabbed Morgan by the throat, slamming the chemist against the floor-to-ceiling window fifty-four stories above the Boston skyline. The thick reinforced glass groaned under the impact.
“You targeted my son,” Marcus snarled into Morgan's disenchanted face, his fingers tightening around the man's windpipe until Morgan's eyes bulged behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “Give me one reason why I shouldn't throw you through this window right now.”
