The containment alarm, a guttural shriek usually reserved for meteor strikes or rogue sovereign wealth funds attempting an unsanctioned asset acquisition, pulsed through the Caldorath Spire. Mavie remained seated at the head of the colossal obsidian table, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns of the polished surface. Bastian Corto’s lips curved into a barely perceptible smile, a predatory gleam in his eyes. Lilibet, ever the picture of composed concern, wrung her hands faintly beside Mavie. From a discreet alcove behind a rotating display of antique handwoven silks, Barnaby, Mavie’s enormous emotional support peacock, let out a single, piercing squawk, as if personally offended by the disturbance. He ruffled his emerald-and-sapphire plumage, settling back onto his custom-built perch fashioned from ancient redwood. Mavie gently scratched the iridescent feathers on his neck, her gaze fixed on the reinforced mahogany doors. They swung open with a soft, pneumatic hiss. Two impeccably tailored perimeter officers, their expressions as neutral as a central bank’s interest rate policy, escorted a figure into the room. Keston Prentiss. His usually slicked-back raven hair was disheveled, clinging in damp strands to his forehead. His bespoke suit, once an armored shell for his inflated ego, was rumpled, the silk tie askew. His eyes darted around the opulent boardroom, wide with panic, before landing on Mavie. “M-Mavie?” he stammered, his voice hoarse, disbelief warring with a desperate hope. He’d expected the Caldorath CEO, a faceless titan of finance, not the 'orphan' he’d discarded barely an hour ago. He still clutched a crumpled, empty velvet pouch, its former contents – undoubtedly some exotic animal or priceless relic he’d intended to trade for leverage – long gone. Mavie offered him a small, polite smile. “Keston. I trust your journey was… enlightening?” His gaze ricocheted to Barnaby, then back to Mavie, a dawning horror creeping into his features. “What is… what is all this? This isn’t a guest room, Mavie. You can’t just… steal a boardroom.” The sheer arrogance, even in his ruined state, was almost admirable. Bastian Corto stepped forward, a slim, dark leather brief in his hand. He placed it with surgical precision onto the polished mahogany directly in front of Keston. The soft *thwack* echoed in the vast room. “Mr. Prentiss,” Bastian’s voice was a low, chilling purr, “you are in the primary executive boardroom of the Caldorath Spire. And you’re not here for a guest room.” He opened the brief, laying out thick stacks of documents. “These,” he gestured to the sheaf, “are the finalized annulment decrees. I took the liberty of arranging a clean break. I also included a rather modest clause for spousal maintenance, given your… recent financial collapse.” Keston’s eyes, already wide, bulged as he stared at the documents. He picked up the first page, his fingers trembling. “Dissolution? What is this? Mavie, this is a mistake! You can’t discard me! We’re… we’re married!” “Were,” Mavie corrected softly, her gaze unwavering. Barnaby preened, his tail feathers brushing against Mavie’s arm, a silent, feathered judgment. Bastian’s smile widened, flashing a sliver of white porcelain. He tapped another, even thicker stack of papers. “And these, Mr. Prentiss, are the articles for the corporate liquidation of Prentiss Holdings, along with the preliminary filings for your personal bankruptcy. My team expedited the process. As of precisely 9:00 AM this morning, your company is formally defunct. Your assets are currently being seized to cover your considerable liabilities.” Keston stumbled back, bumping into one of the standing officers, who remained stoic. “Defunct? Bankruptcy? No! That’s impossible! I’m Keston Prentiss! I built an empire!” His voice cracked, desperation clawing its way through his bluster. He turned back to Mavie, his face a mask of pleading. “Mavie, my love, you know this isn’t me! This is some cruel joke! We can fix this, darling. I know you’re upset about… about Opaline. But she means nothing! She’s just a… a distraction. A temporary lapse of judgment! A regrettable, fleeting indiscretion!” He took a hesitant step toward her, his hands outstretched. “We can go back to how things were. I’ll send her away! I’ll send her to… to wherever she came from. The panda sanctuary, she can run the gift shop! Anything! Just tell them to stop this! Tell your… your people to stop!” Mavie’s expression remained serene, untouched by his frantic appeals. “Keston, please,” she said, her voice gentle, but with an underlying steel that chilled the air. “You’re in the Caldorath Spire. You came here seeking an emergency bailout from the Caldorath CEO, correct?” He nodded vigorously, tears welling in his eyes. “Yes! A bailout! Just a temporary bridge loan, Mavie! I just need time! With your Caldorath backing, I can rebuild everything! We can be even stronger!” “I see.” Mavie paused, letting the silence stretch, heavy with his impending doom. She met his gaze directly. “And you believe your past conduct, your… regrettable indiscretions, as you called them, make you a suitable candidate for Caldorath investment?” He opened his mouth, then closed it. The pretense of his self-made genius crumbled into naked dread. “Mavie, please! For us! For everything we had!” Mavie’s gaze hardened, the soft kindness finally receding. “There is no ‘us’, Keston. There is no bailout. You made your choices. Now you will face the consequences.” Keston stared, mouth agape, as if she had just spoken in a forgotten language. He looked utterly broken. As the two officers moved to firmly take his arms, Mavie’s eyes drifted to Lilibet, who was positioned slightly behind Keston. Lilibet, with a movement almost imperceptible, leaned in, her lips brushing Keston’s ear. Mavie couldn’t hear the words, but Keston flinched, a flicker of surprise and then a strange, knowing look passing over his face just before he was guided towards the doors. “No! Mavie, you can’t! You won’t get away with this!” Keston’s voice, now a pathetic wail, echoed down the marble hallway as the doors hissed shut behind him. Barnaby, apparently having found Keston’s exit unsatisfactory, hopped down from his perch. With a surprising burst of speed for such a large bird, he darted across the room, snatching something small and metallic from where it had fallen near the table leg. He brought it back to Mavie, dropping it onto the polished surface with a triumphant squawk. It was Keston’s luxury data-slate, his phone, cracked from the fall. Mavie picked it up, her brow furrowing. The screen was still lit, displaying a recently sent text message. It was from an unsaved number, simply labeled “Unknown Contact.” The message read: *“Spire Level 7 Security Protocol: 8-0-1-9-C-A-L. Lobby Access: 4-2-2-P-R-E.”* Mavie’s fingers tightened around the device. Keston hadn’t 'bypassed' the exterior guards; he’d been given access codes. She tapped the contact to view the profile. A circular photo rendered on screen, showcasing a woman smiling. Around her neck, glinting beneath the soft light of the photograph, was Mavie’s mother’s heirloom, the ‘Winterfrost Bloom’ necklace, stolen from the Caldorath vault years ago. The woman in the picture, wearing the necklace that should have been Mavie’s, was Lilibet Gower.

The Boardroom Beggar