At 86, My Boss Said I Was Too Old to Travel, Stripped My Board Seat, and Gaslit Me — Until Karma Struck Her Down at the Summit
The meeting with Cyrus Finch was set for a sterile, neutral conference room in a community center, a place devoid of any personal connection for either of us. I wanted him to feel exposed, vulnerable. Ben and I arrived early, setting up Ben’s laptop with the damning evidence.
Finch walked in, ten minutes late, his eyes darting nervously around the room. He wore a rumpled suit, his tie askew. He looked exactly like the nervous notary I remembered, not the beaming speedboat owner from Ben’s photos. The facade was thin.
“Elara,” he stammered, offering a weak smile. “Ben. What is this about?”
His voice was thin, reedy. He avoided eye contact, fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt.
I didn’t waste any time. “Mr. Finch, we have some questions about your recent financial acquisitions.”
Ben slid his laptop across the table, turning the screen towards Finch. It displayed the meticulously compiled chart of his luxury purchases, juxtaposed with Seraphina’s suspicious Fund transfers. The image of the Lake Chelan vacation home filled the screen.
Finch’s eyes widened, his face paling noticeably. He swallowed hard.
“Those are my private affairs,” he mumbled, trying to sound indignant, but his voice lacked conviction. “Legitimate private clients, legitimate transactions.”
“Legitimate?” I countered, my voice sharp. “Two million dollars in two years? On a notary’s salary? And what about the non-disclosure agreements, Mr. Finch? The shell corporations tied to Seraphina Albright?”
Ben clicked to another slide, showing the NDA documents, the intricate web of obscured ownership. Finch visibly deflated. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“I… I can’t discuss client matters,” he stammered, his gaze flickering desperately from me to Ben. “Client confidentiality.”
“Client confidentiality doesn’t cover complicity in fraud,” I stated, my voice unwavering. “Nor does it cover taking bribes to facilitate the dismantling of a community fund.”
That word—”bribes”—hit him hard. He flinched, his eyes darting to the door. He tried to compose himself, clearing his throat loudly.
“You’re making baseless accusations,” Finch insisted, though his voice was trembling. “I’m a respected member of this community. I’ve always upheld my professional duties.”
“And what about the ‘special provision’?” I pressed, leaning forward. “The one referenced in the original 1968 documents? The one Seraphina went to such great lengths to hide?”
His composure completely shattered. He gasped, a small, choked sound, his eyes wide with fear. The question had clearly struck a nerve, revealing a secret he thought was buried deep. He stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he blurted out, his voice a frantic squeak. “I can’t help you! I really can’t!”
He made a move for the door, desperate to escape. His face was a mask of terror, not just from being caught, but from something deeper, something more menacing. He was clearly terrified of repercussions, not just from Seraphina, but from a force even greater.
Ben moved quickly, stepping partially into his path, blocking the exit.
“Mr. Finch, you need to tell us what you know,” Ben urged, his voice calm but firm. “The Fund is being bled dry. People are depending on it.”
Finch recoiled, pushing past Ben with surprising force. His eyes were wild, unseeing.
“Leave me alone!” he cried, his voice shrill. “You don’t understand! She’ll… she’ll destroy me!”
He yanked the door open and bolted out of the room, leaving us in stunned silence. The echo of his frantic footsteps faded down the hallway. He left behind a palpable scent of fear, a mix of stale sweat and cheap aftershave.
I looked at Ben, my expression grim. Finch’s terror had been genuine. It wasn’t just fear of legal consequences; it was fear of Seraphina, or perhaps, of the informal network that Marcus had spoken of. He was trapped between two formidable forces.
“He knows something crucial, Elara,” Ben said, his voice low. “And he’s terrified.”
I nodded, my mind racing. Finch’s reaction confirmed every suspicion we had. Seraphina’s scheme ran deeper than we initially imagined, protected by a veil of fear and a willingness to exploit vulnerabilities. The small, almost invisible gold watch chain Finch wore, which I’d briefly glimpsed, felt like a symbol of his newfound, ill-gotten gains and his desperate attachment to them.
“He’s clearly caught between a rock and a hard place,” I mused, picking up one of Ben’s printouts. “But his fear also tells us how high the stakes are. And how dangerous Seraphina truly is.”
The confrontation hadn’t yielded a direct confession, but it had yielded something equally valuable: undeniable proof of Finch’s complicity and, more importantly, a chilling glimpse into the power Seraphina wielded over him. His panicked flight was an admission in itself.
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