“Junia Bresson!” Croft’s voice boomed, echoing in the suddenly cavernous room. “I believe these officers have an arrest warrant for you. For egregious corporate fraud. It seems your recent annulment has rather conveniently removed any lingering doubt about your complicity, wouldn’t you agree?” Air scraped dry in Junia’s throat. Her gaze flicked from Croft’s sneer to the two regulators, their grey wool tunics stark against the bunker's copper panels. The heavy iron restraints on an inspector’s utility belt caught the recessed sconces. Her fragile deception, her sanctuary funding, her freedom—gone. Nausea surged, tilting the zinc-topped table beneath her palms. But before she could even form an apology, before she could stammer out a defense, Thayer was moving. He didn’t hesitate. One moment he was seated, a picture of aristocratic cool, the next he was standing, a formidable barrier between Junia and the impending threat. His posture was rigid, a shield of tailored silk and absolute resolve. “The warrant names the wrong party,” Thayer stated, tone level and icy. He held out his forearms, palms up, toward the agents. “I am Thayer Rohe, chief executive of Rohe Group. Every merger filing, contract amendment, and financial declaration fell under my explicit directive. Junia Bresson executed orders as my subordinate and carries zero culpability.” The regulators traded an unsettled glance. Croft’s triumphant grin slipped into a snarl. “What nonsense is this, Rohe? The dissolution decree proves she was never your *real* wife. She impersonated Daphne Vancroft!” Thayer didn't look at Croft. His focus remained fixed on the lead inspector. “A marriage dissolution does not invalidate executive authority exercised during our filing period. I claim sole liability.” He gestured toward the tungsten bands. “Clamp them.” Junia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. He couldn’t. He was offering himself up. For her. The officer, clearly unprepared for this turn of events, hesitated, then slowly approached Thayer. The metal clicked shut around his forearms. He didn't flinch. Not a muscle twitched in his face, even as the unsterilized steel pressed against his bare skin. “Before transport,” Thayer commanded crisply, “I require thirty seconds for a fiduciary conveyance.” He turned slightly, meeting Junia’s stare with unblinking intent. “Junia, my terminal. The enterprise console.” Junia fumbled for his custom-built comm-pad, her hands trembling. She unlocked it against his thumb pad, skin meeting skin through a crackle of static. He nudged the glass forward with clasped hands. “Select ‘Executive Proxy Conveyance.’ Assignee: Junia Bresson.” “Thayer, no,” she whispered, trembling. “What happens to your empire?” “Authorize it,” he urged quietly. “It secures the animal shelter and the firm.” With a shaking thumb, Junia tapped the glowing prompt. The comm-pad chimed clear. [Executive Proxy Conveyance: 100% to Junia Bresson. Effective Immediately.] “Done,” Thayer murmured, letting out a steady breath. “Inspectors, take me into custody.” Croft, having recovered from his shock, began to splutter. “This is preposterous! You can’t just—she’s still complicit! She knew! It’s a conspiracy!” “A conspiracy, you say?” Junia’s voice, though still shaky, gained a surprising edge. Seeing Thayer bound in unsterilized metal ignited a hot flare of outrage across her chest. She pulled out her burner phone, the cheap, untraceable device Daphne had used to contact her, the one she’d been carrying ever since the gala. “Funny you should mention that, Mr. Croft.” She tapped the screen, and a grainy audio recording began to play, filling the bunker with the muffled sounds of a crowded room. Then, Daphne Vancroft’s distinctive, petulant voice cut through: *“He ruined everything! I need to void that marriage, Sterling. Thayer Rohe won’t know what hit him when I sell his security codes to the highest bidder.”* Croft’s voice followed, colder, more calculating: *“Excellent, Daphne. And with the annulment, Junia Bresson will be our perfect scapegoat. We’ll pin the entire corporate fraud on her.”* The agents stiffened, exchanging glances of sharp suspicion. The senior inspector raised a leather glove, cutting the audio short. “Croft, is that your voice on this feed?” Croft’s face went ashen. He stammered, “N-no! That’s edited! It’s a fabrication!” “Fabrication?” Junia stepped closer, screen tilted upward. “Logged during the annual shareholder banquet. Public registry. Forty independent surveillance feeds cross-reference that balcony.” She looked at Thayer, steadying her chin. “It documents premeditated blackmail against Rohe Group and intentional framing of a receptionist, while Mr. Rohe shielded his… wife.” The senior inspector turned. “Davies, restrain Mr. Croft. Remand him for industrial conspiracy and filing a fraudulent warrant.” Croft sputtered as the second agent pinned his elbows back with zip-ties. “Insolence! I am Sterling Croft! My legal counsel will strip your badges!” “Counsel may file an inquiry at central intake, sir,” Davies replied flatly. “Where is Ms. Vancroft currently located?” Junia offered a small, predatory smile. “I believe Ms. Vancroft is still on the Rohe Estate. I’m quite certain she’d be amenable to a plea deal. Perhaps community service, aiding the ‘unwashed masses’ at a certain animal sanctuary.” The senior inspector dipped his chin. “Under federal oversight. I'll flag dispatch.” He stepped back to Thayer, inserting a magnetic key. “Mr. Rohe, charges dropped. Our apologies for the procedural detour.” The bracelets slipped loose with a metallic ping. Thayer inspected the red marks on his skin, then produced a sterile disinfectant wipe from his breast pocket, his gaze locked entirely onto Junia. Croft was neutralized, Daphne accounted for, but the air still hung heavy. As Davies hauled a snarling Croft into the corridor, the comm-pad in Junia’s palm hummed with high-frequency haptics. The screen flashed: ‘Board of Governors — Priority Alpha.’ Junia answered, putting it on speaker. The faces of three grim-looking men appeared on the screen, their expressions severe enough to curdle milk. “Thayer!” Chairman Aldus Kincaid barked from the panel. “Our terminals just logged a proxy conveyance to a Miss Junia Bresson. What madness is this? News wires are blaring Croft’s detention outside your vault. The conglomerate is hemorrhaging market cap!” “Chairman Kincaid,” Thayer said, stepping closer to Junia, his voice calm despite the storm. “The transfer was necessary to protect the company’s assets from external threats, now neutralized. As for the Rohe merger, it remains fully intact, as does the Vancroft debt acquisition.” “Intact?” Kincaid sneered. “Our legal division has reviewed the covenants. Daphne Vancroft’s flight and your separation filing dissolved the premise. The debt absorption terms required an unbroken marital union. Without valid marriage documentation, our lines of credit collapse by dawn.” A second governor chimed in from a glass-walled high-rise. “Unless authenticated registry proof of a lawful marriage hits the exchange clerk before midnight, our assets enter non-negotiable receivership. The syndicate pulls funding.” Junia’s heart leaped into her throat. *Liquidation?* All of Thayer’s life’s work, gone. And the time… she glanced at the comm-pad’s glowing display. Eleven forty-five. Fifteen minutes. Her eyes met Thayer’s, a desperate question in their depths. His stare locked onto hers, burning past clauses, penalties, and company charters. Survival had shrunk to a single, wild choice.

Unsanitized Truths