“Evelyn Mercer,” Marisol said calmly. “We have documentation tying these transfers to a shell company linked to your events foundation.”
Evelyn’s face drained color. Her attorney bristled.
“Fabrication,” Evelyn said. “I will sue.”
Then—because the room loves drama and truth loves theatre—Gage stood. He moved faster than his past life suggested, straight into the aisle with a laptop under his arm.
“You want faces?” he said. “We can show you faces.”
He connected the laptop to the feed and a video flickered. It was shaky, handheld, recorded in a private back room. There was Evelyn, her voice crisp, meeting with a man whose face we had not seen before. She laughed at something off camera. She slid a paper across the table. The camera captured hands—Evelyn’s—accepting an envelope and tossi
