Page 138 of Lennox Lane

“If you need anything, call me,” he said.

Her eyes warmed again, but there was sadness there too. “I should’ve been the one saying that to you all these years.”

He didn’t know what to do with that, so he kissed her cheek. “You can say it now.”

Mielle touched his face once, and for a second, he was a boy again, wanting something from her he hadn’t had the language to ask for. Then Jason groaned on the floor, interrupting the moment.

Mielle sighed. “I called my attorney and security to be here as I move my things out today. Both are waiting at the gate with the movers,” she let Lennox know.

Lennox paused, then laughed once. “Council wives?”

“Council wives,” she confirmed.

He left his mother standing taller in a house that had shrunk her for too long. Then he went to find Curtis Bell, which took less time than it should’ve. Men like Curtis loved proximity to power, which meant they often orbited in predictable patterns. A private office in a renovated brick building near the acquisition corridor. A name on frosted glass. A receptionist who looked one unpaid invoice away from walking out. A conference room with inspirational words on the wall and predatory contracts on the table. Curtis stepped out of his office when Lennox walked in, and his expression collapsed before he could hide it.

“Mr. Jackson.”

Lennox smiled. “Curtis.”

“I was just about to⁠—”

“No, you weren’t,” Lennox was curt, stopping the lie in its tracks.

Curtis looked toward the receptionist. “Can we talk privately?”

“We can talk here.”

The receptionist stood slowly and grabbed her purse. “I’m taking lunch.”

Smart woman, he thought to himself.

When the door shut behind her, Curtis’s smile became desperate. “Whatever you think is going on⁠—”

“I know what’s going on.”

Curtis swallowed as Lennox walked closer, stopping at the edge of the conference table. “You and Jason Jackson created false financial documents to make The Full Plate Project appear involved in money laundering.”

“I was following direction,” he cowered.

“From a man who no longer has the power to protect you,” Lennox spat venomously.

Curtis’s face went gray.

“There will be no acquisition,” Lennox said. “No corridor deal. No transition strategy. No state-of-the-art relocation offer designed to make poor people invisible. The council is done with you. Investors are done with you. Your shell companies are burned. Your lenders are already calling.”

Curtis stumbled back into a chair. “My lenders?”

“And your partners.”

Curtis fumbled for his phone, hands shaking as he unlocked it. Notifications poured in that he wasn’t prepared to handle. Lennox was sure there were enough missed calls, text messages, and emails to make the man’s head swim, but he’d done it to himself.

Now he’d have to go home and explain to his wife that she blew through money like she was married to Pablo Escobar, why there were holds on the accounts. Every bit of false comfort drained from his body until he looked less like a consultant and more like a man realizing the floor had been a trap door. He sank to the ground and cried.

Lennox watched him crumple onto the expensive office rug in his bad suit, sobbing into one hand while the other clutched his phone like it might turn back into a lifeline—it would not.

“You played a stupid game,” Lennox said, “and won the ultimate stupid prize.”

Curtis looked up, face wet. “Please. I didn’t know she was yours.”