My High-Society Father Dismissed My Supersonic Jet Warnings As Hysteria Until He Crashed The Simulator — Then The Defense Board Forced Me To Take His Place
I walked directly past the still-applauding board members, ignoring Arthur’s frozen, furious face. My steps were deliberate, echoing slightly in the vast hangar as I approached the podium set up for the presentations. I placed the heavy leather binder on the polished surface, the thud resonating in the sudden, expectant quiet.
General Kensington gave a signal, and the applause died down. All eyes were on me.
I opened the binder. The first document on top was a certified bank statement.
“General Kensington, esteemed members of the Defense Procurement Board,” I began, my voice clear and steady. “The XR-12 Specter is a viable airframe, provided its inherent design flaws are properly managed. But the structural integrity of Harrington Aerospace, and indeed, my own life, is another matter entirely.”
I retrieved the bank statement, holding it up for the room to see. “These are certified bank records from my personal account. They show a systematic diversion of funds.”
My gaze swept across the room, landing squarely on Julian Croft, the family’s old-money accountant, who stood near Arthur, a nervous tic starting at his jaw. Julian, a portly man in a too-tight suit, swallowed hard.
“Over the past three years,” I continued, “a total of $4.2 million in patent royalties, legally due to me for my prior aerospace design contributions, was diverted. Not to a legitimate business expense, but to an offshore entity, funneling through a series of shell corporations.”
Julian Croft’s face, already pale, turned a sickly green. He tugged at his collar, his eyes darting frantically between me and Arthur. Arthur, his jaw clenched, avoided my gaze entirely.
“Furthermore,” I pressed on, pulling out another document, “these are my bankruptcy filings from two years ago. Falsified. Deliberately engineered to strip me of assets and intellectual property during my divorce proceedings.”
I slammed the papers down on the podium. “Mr. Julian Croft, as the family’s entrusted notary and accountant, you signed these documents. You orchestrated this financial destruction.”
The room erupted into a low murmur, a flurry of whispers among the high-society investors. General Kensington’s expression hardened. He looked directly at Julian Croft, his voice like ice.
“Mr. Croft,” he demanded, “the board requires an immediate explanation.”
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