CHAPTER 32
The elevator ride to the forty-third floor felt longer than it should have, even though Remy knew it would take exactly ninety-two seconds.
The sleek chrome interior reflected his image back at him from multiple angles.
A young man in an expensive jacket with golden eyes that glowed faintly even in the bright fluorescent lighting.
Silas stood beside him, invisible to the security camera recording their ascent, his translucent form flickering with each floor they passed.
"Last chance to reconsider," the ghost said quietly.
"You could handle this remotely. Send lawyers, make calls, and use your Foresight to outmanoeuvre him without ever setting foot in his territory."
"I could," Remy agreed, watching the numbers tick upward. "But that wouldn't send the message I need to send.
Thomas Parston has spent forty years being the scariest person in the room.
People defer to him, fear him, and bend to his will because he's built this aura of untouchable power.
I need to walk into his throne room and show him and show everyone that he's not untouchable anymore."
The elevator chimed softly as they reached the top floor.
The doors slid open to reveal an executive reception area that screamed old money.
It was well furbished with dark wood panelling and leather furniture that probably cost more than most people's cars.
It had original oil paintings of landscapes and hunting scenes, the kind of decor that said, "we've been rich since before your grandparents were born."
A receptionist who'd clearly been working late looked up from her desk, her professional smile faltering when she saw Remy's eyes.
"Mr. Beaumont? Mr. Parston is... he said he would see you. But I should warn you, he's not in a good mood."
"I know," Remy said simply. "That's why I'm here."
She gestured toward a set of double doors at the far end of the reception area.
A thick mahogany door, with brass handles, imposing in the way that doors to powerful men's offices always seemed to be.
"Through there. His office. I'll let him know you're coming."
But before she could pick up her phone, the doors swung open from the inside.
Thomas Parston stood framed in the doorway, backlit by the city lights visible through floor-to-ceiling windows behind his massive desk.
He was tall, six foot two, and still carried himself with the bearing of someone used to dominating physical space.
His silver hair was immaculately groomed, his suit custom-tailored, his expression cold and calculating.
"Mr. Beaumont," he said, his gravelly voice dripping with contempt.
"I wondered if you'd have the balls to show your face here. Come in. Let's have our conversation."
Remy walked past him into the office, his movements unhurried and confident.
The space was exactly as he'd seen it in his Foresight, the rosewood desk, the wall of monitors showing market data and security feeds.
The wet bar in the corner, the leather chairs arranged in front of the desk in positions designed to make visitors feel small while the occupant loomed behind his fortress of Brazilian wood.
Thomas closed the doors with a solid thunk that seemed designed to be intimidating.
He walked to his desk but didn't sit, instead standing behind it with his hands braced on the surface, leaning forward in a power pose that probably worked on most people.
"You have some nerve," Thomas said, his voice low and dangerous. "Coming to my building.
After what you did to my son. After the damage you've caused to my company. Do you have any idea who I am? What I am capable of?"
"I know exactly who you are," Remy replied calmly, not taking the offered seat in front of the desk but instead walking to the windows, looking out at the city spread below them.
"Thomas Parston. Built Parston Real Estate Group from two properties your father left you in 1982.
Expanded through aggressive acquisitions, leveraged buyouts, and business practices that consistently pushed the edge of legality.
Net worth approximately $430 million as of last quarter, though that number's been dropping rapidly since your son's arrest."
He turned to face Thomas, his golden eyes catching the light. "You have connections in city government, state government, federal agencies.
You've sat on seven corporate boards. You've destroyed dozens of competitors over the years through combinations of legal manoeuvring and quasi-legal intimidation.
You're feared, respected, and absolutely convinced that you're untouchable."
Thomas's expression had gone from contemptuous to wary.
"You've done your homework. So you know what happens to people who cross me."
"I know what used to happen to people who crossed you," Remy corrected.
"Before you encountered someone who can see you coming.
And because you made the mistake of attacking people I care about."
"The Castellanes," Thomas spat. "Small-time developers who got lucky with a few projects and think they're players now.
Your little investment might have saved them temporarily, but they're still vulnerable. They're still weak. And weakness is something I exploit."
"Which is why you're planning to attack their servers tonight," Remy said, his voice flat and matter-of-fact. "11:47 PM. Three hackers, hired through your Cayman Islands shell company.
The goal is to wipe their data, cripple their operations, force Marcus Castellane to accept a rescue buyout that would give you control of his company, and, not coincidentally, his daughter."
The colour drained from Thomas's face. "How the hell do you...."
"I also know about the media assault you're planning for tomorrow," Remy continued, ignoring the interruption.
"The tips to journalists, the anonymous leaks, the coordinated character assassination designed to paint me as a criminal and the three women as my victims.
I know about your call to Dr. Harrington, the offer to help him 'protect' his daughter in exchange for helping you destroy my reputation."
He took a step closer to the desk, his eyes glowing brighter now.
"I know all of it, Mr. Parston. Every move you're planning. Every piece on the chessboard and every dirty trick in your playbook.
And I'm here to give you one chance. just one, to end this before it destroys you."
Thomas's hands clenched into fists on the desk. "You're bluffing. You can't possibly...."
"The hackers are named Dmitri Volkov, Ana Petrescu, and Mikhail Sokolov," Remy said, pulling out his phone and displaying a document.
"Currently operating out of Bucharest, though they'll route the attack through servers in Singapore to obscure the source.
You're paying them $150,000, wired through three intermediary accounts to look like legitimate consulting fees.
The shell company is called Meridian Advisory Solutions, registered in Georgetown, Cayman Islands, with you as the beneficial owner hidden behind two layers of nominee directors."
He set the phone on the desk, facing Thomas. "I have all of this documented.
I have evidence of your insider trading, your market manipulation, and your illegal coordination with your son that led to the attempt to destroy the Castellanes.
And if you proceed with tonight's attack, I will have evidence of that, too. Real-time documentation that will put you in federal prison."
Thomas stared at the phone, his face cycling through emotions,shock, rage, fear, and calculation.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. "Who the hell are you, huh? CIA? FBI? Some kind of corporate espionage specialist?"
"I'm a college student who has very good deducing abilities, call it a gift even," Remy said quietly.
"The ability predict the future based on clues, behavioural patterns and prior knowledge of who or what i want to know about.
With my accurate deductions, it's like i can forsee every decision, every consequence, every move my enemies are planning.
And I'm using that gift to protect the people I love from men like you."
"That's impossible," Thomas said, but his voice lacked conviction. "Nobody can predict the future to such extent.
This is some kind of trick, some elaborate...."
"In a few seconds, your personal phone is going to ring," Remy interrupted.
"It's your wife, calling from your estate in the Hamptons. She's going to ask if you've seen the news about the SEC expanding their investigation.
You're going to tell her everything's fine, that your lawyers are handling it, and that she shouldn't worry.
Then you're going to pour yourself three fingers of that 25-year-old Macallan on your bar because you're stressed, and you always turn to expensive scotch when you're stressed."
Thomas opened his mouth to respond, and then his phone rang, the personal cell in his pocket, not the office line.
He pulled it out with shaking hands. The caller ID read "Patricia" Mobile."
He answered. "Patricia? What's..." He listened, his face going pale. "Yes, I saw.
The lawyers are handling it. Everything's fine. Don't worry." He hung up and walked to the bar as if in a trance, pouring exactly three fingers of Macallan into a crystal tumbler.
When he turned back, his hand was trembling enough that the scotch rippled in the glass.
"Impossible," he whispered.
"And yet," Remy said. "So now you understand what you're dealing with.
A twenty-year-old college student who can predict every move you make before you make it.
Who can outmanoeuvre you in every market, anticipate every attack, counter every strategy.
You can not win this fight, Mr. Parston. You can only choose how badly you lose."
"What do you want?" Thomas asked, his voice defeated in a way it probably hadn't been in decades. "Money? A stake in my company? Name your price."
"I want you to call off tonight's attack," Remy said. "I want you to drop every plan you have against me, Lyra, Nyx, Indigo, and the Castellanes.
I want you to liquidate your assets, pay your fines, and retire quietly.
And in exchange, I'll let you keep your freedom. The evidence I have stays private. You avoid prison."
Thomas took a long drink of the scotch, his mind clearly working through options, calculating probabilities, and looking for an angle.
Remy could see the exact moment he made his decision, the slight tightening of his jaw, the shift in his posture, the hardening of his eyes.
It was the wrong decision.
"No," Thomas said, setting down the glass with a decisive click. "I've been in this business for a long time.
I've faced threats before. I've outlasted people who thought they were smarter than me.
You might have gotten lucky with a few predictions. You might have some unusual intelligence sources, but you're still just a kid. And kids make mistakes."
He pulled out his phone and started typing a message. "I'm going to proceed with tonight's plan.
I'm going to destroy the Castellanes and bury you in investigations and media scrutiny.
And when you're broke and discredited and facing federal charges, I'm going to make sure everyone knows what happens when you cross the Parston family."
Remy sighed, genuine sadness in his expression. "I was really hoping you'd choose differently. For what it's worth, I'm sorry it has to end this way."
"Get out of my office," Thomas snarled. "Before I have security, throw you out."
"I'm going," Remy said, walking toward the doors. But he paused with his hand on the handle and turned back. "One more prediction, Mr. Parston.
Tomorrow during the late afternoon, federal agents will execute search warrants on this office, your home, and seven of your company's locations.
By tomorrow at, or a little after 6:00 PM, you'll be in custody. By next week, you'll be facing several federal charges, including securities fraud, wire fraud, computer crimes, and conspiracy.
In approximately eighteen months, you'll be sentenced to serve time in federal prison."
Thomas's face went purple with rage. "You're threatening me? In my own office?"
"Not threatening," Remy said quietly. "Predicting and warning you. I've seen your future, Mr. Parston.
And I gave you one chance to change it. You chose wrong. Now, you'll face the consequences."
He pulled open the door and walked out.
Leaving Thomas Parston standing behind his rosewood desk, scotch glass in hand, staring after him with the dawning realization that maybe, just maybe, the impossible young man with golden eyes was telling the truth.
---
In the elevator going down, Silas materialized beside Remy, his expression grave.
"He's not going to back down," the ghost observed. "He's going to proceed with the attack, just like you said.
His pride won't let him surrender to someone he sees as beneath him."
"I know," Remy said, pulling out his phone and sending a text to Nyx: "Conversation failed.
Parston proceeding as planned. You're clear to engage defensive and offensive measures.
Document everything. I'll meet you at the Castellane building at 11:30."
"You're really going to destroy him," Silas said. It wasn't a question.
"I'm going to let him destroy himself," Remy corrected. "All I'm doing is documenting it and making sure the evidence reaches the right people.
Thomas Parston built his empire on intimidation and illegal practices.
Now, he's going to learn that when you attack someone who can see you coming, you end up building the case against yourself."
His phone buzzed with Nyx's response: "Systems ready. Traps set. This is actually exciting. Is that wrong?
Waiting for you at Castellane HQ. Lyra and Indigo are here, too. They insisted on being present."
Remy smiled despite the gravity of the situation. "Of course they did. Because I'm not alone anymore. We're doing this together."
The elevator reached the ground floor. Remy walked out into the night, past the nervous security guard, toward his waiting Audi.
Behind him, forty-three floors up, Thomas Parston stood in his office and made a phone call that would seal his fate.
"Proceed with the operation," he said to whoever answered. "Tonight. As planned. And make it thorough."
In doing so, he signed his own destruction warrant.
Because Remy Beaumont had seen this moment coming hours ago.
And had already prepared the perfect response.
The war between the college student with divine gifts and the titan of industry was entering its final phase.
Only one of them knew how it was going to end.