Chapter 31 Ethan’s Perfect Blueprint
779 Words
The top-floor office was silent. Ethan Gill sat behind his desk, watching the rain hit the glass. He looked calm, like any other day.
Belle Lawson stood by the door, tablet in hand.
“You have the dossier on the Voss holdings?” Ethan asked.
“Everything,” Belle replied. “Adrian is liquidating his Midtown positions. He has fifty million in cash looking for a home.”
Ethan tapped his pen. “Contact him. Tell him I have a proposal that needs absolute discretion. We’re collaborating.”
Belle nodded once and left without another word.
Later, in a private room in a West Village townhouse, Adrian Voss was already waiting.
“You’re late, Ethan,” Adrian said.
“The delay was to make sure we weren’t followed,” Ethan replied, sitting down.
Adrian waved the waiter out and closed the door. “What’s the play?”
Ethan leaned forward. “We’re launching a closed fund. High entry, very high returns. We use our names to keep questions away.”
Adrian’s eyes sharpened. “A Ponzi?”
“A sophisticated, legally insulated trap,” Ethan corrected. “We target people who think they’re too smart to fall. Anyone who tries to pull out early gets destroyed.”
Adrian leaned back and stayed quiet for a long moment. He swirled the wine in his glass, staring at the candlelight. “This isn’t small-time, Ethan. If it cracks, the SEC won’t just slap wrists. They’ll come for blood. Mine included.”
“I know the risks,” Ethan said evenly. “That’s why it has to be airtight. We control the flow, we control the exits. No paper trail that leads back to us.”
Adrian rubbed his jaw, thinking. “And what’s your real endgame? ”
Ethan said. “People like us are meant to stand at the top of the world. You can’t get there playing by the rules and making clean money.”
Adrian stared at him for several seconds, weighing every word. Finally, he let out a slow breath and gave a short laugh.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said. “But the upside is huge.” He raised his glass in a silent toast. “I’m in.”
Ethan didn’t smile. He simply nodded, already seeing the pieces moving.
The rehearsal hall was quiet. Maya sat on her stool, cello against her leg, but she didn’t play.
Jessie Meg leaned against the grand piano, heels tapping impatiently. “You look like you’re waiting for a funeral, Maya. You should be popping champagne. Ethan just got you an international festival slot. Most people never even see that contract.”
Maya’s fingers tightened on the neck of the cello. “I know how lucky I am, Jessie.”
Eva Phillips stepped out from behind the curtain. “Do you? An artist with no muscle is just a beggar with a loud hobby. This city doesn’t give anything for free.”
Eva moved closer. “I have a friend at the Royal Opera House. They’re looking for a new Principal Cellist. The seat you’ve wanted since you were six.”
Maya looked up quickly. “The Principal seat?”
“There’s a catch,” Eva said, lowering her voice. “The conductor doesn’t want someone who just plays the notes. He wants a ‘special relationship.’ A private loyalty that goes beyond the room. Play the part, and the chair is yours.”
Maya felt something inside her go cold. The old hunger flickered for a second, then died. She stared at her cello and realized it wasn’t her voice anymore — it was just currency. The worst part was how easy it felt to say yes.
Across town, Clara Bishop sat in a busy coffee shop with her laptop open. At the next table, two members of Chloe’s old team were talking in low, angry voices.
“They just handed the entire theater project to Sarah,” one said. “Chloe built that design from scratch and they stole it.”
“Everyone’s saying the same thing,” the other replied. “Sarah didn’t win on talent. She slept with Jeffrey and Charlie to get the blueprints.”
Clara closed her laptop, stood up, and walked over. “Excuse me. I’m Clara Bishop, journalist. I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m very interested in this rumor about Sarah Milton.”
The two women looked at each other. After a short pause, one of them nodded.
“Sit down,” she said. “We’ll tell you everything we know. The logs, the meetings, how Sarah traded herself for the project.”
Clara pulled up a chair, pen ready.
- Writer
