Chapter 267: The Hunter’s Teeth

The St. Regis Miami conference room wasn’t just luxury—it was the kind of wealth porn Architectural Digest drools over. Floor-to-ceiling windows spilled sunlight across Biscayne Bay like God’s own spotlight, an Italian marble table sat in the middle looking smug about costing more than the average suburban cul-de-sac, and the chairs? Oh, those chairs were silent weapons.

Ergonomic diplomacy.

Cushioned manipulation. Whoever designed them understood that comfort wins wars before words do.

Across from us sat four committee members, all wrapped in suits so tailored they practically had Ivy League diplomas stitched into the lining. From Harvard: Dr. Patricia Whitmore, Vice Provost, the type who could probably kill you with passive-aggressive praise, and Professor James Manning, CS Chair, carrying all the charisma of a human printer. Stanford brought Dean Micha, looking every bit the polished administrator, and Dr. Suzzie Kimberly, Associate Provost, with that smile professors practice before rejecting your grant proposal.

Behind them, two massive screens displayed another dozen administrators dialing in, remote faces arranged in Brady Bunch squares of boredom. They thought they were here for a routine donor circle-jerk.

Cute.

Charlotte sat to my left in her boardroom-killer fit, radiating $4B boss energy. Madison to my right, her presence corporate-sexy enough to validate the charade. Alice Kirkman and Rebecca Chen flanked us, quiet, unnoticed—like background characters the writers hadn’t given dialogue yet.

"Ms. Thompson," Dr. Whitmore began with that well-oiled charm Harvard probably injects during orientation, "on behalf of Harvard University, I want to express our deep gratitude for this extraordinary commitment."

Dean Micha nodded like a bobblehead on Red Bull. "Five hundred million dollars will transform our research capabilities..." Blah blah legacy, blah blah impact. Same script, different donation.

Charlotte? Flawless. She slid through allocation strategies and naming rights like she’d been born holding a trust fund. Every word reminded them she wasn’t just playing rich-girl cosplay—she was the main character of this show.

Then came the signing. Flashbulbs popped, pens scratched marble, history allegedly happened. Charlotte committed $1 billion, split clean down the middle: Harvard and Stanford. The suits practically sagged with relief. Dr. Kim looked like she’d just unlocked the cure for tenure anxiety.

"This partnership will enable groundbreaking resear—"

I stood up.

"My apologies," I said, voice slicing through their champagne mood like silk meeting steel, "but before we conclude today’s meeting, we need to move to the second agenda item."

The temperature in the room dropped faster than Facebook stock during a congressional hearing.

Dr. Whitmore blinked, confusion etched across her Botox. "I’m sorry... second agenda?"

"There sure was." I smiled, just enough edge to make their overpriced ergonomic chairs squeak under shifting weight.

Professor Manning adjusted his glasses, brows knitting like bad code. "This meeting was arranged exclusively for Ms. Thompson’s philanthropic commitments—"

"And that’s the thing about agendas," I cut in, pacing the marble like it was my runway. "They evolve. They adapt. They change... when I say so."

Dean Micha cleared his throat, clinging to what scraps of authority he thought he still had. "And you are... Mr...?"

I let the silence stretch, the weight of my grin daring him to regret asking.

"That’s an interesting question," I said evenly, noting how two hours had passed without anyone once asking for my identification or credentials. "You’ve just signed billion-dollar agreements while allowing a complete stranger to sit in on your negotiations. Along with two women you’ve never met." I gestured toward Alice and Rebecca. "Remarkable trust for institutions that pride themselves on rigor."

The scent of dawning humiliation. Distinguished academics. Gatekeepers of legacy. They’d violated their own protocols in a gold-rush haze. On the wall screens, remote administrators leaned closer, faces suddenly taut with fascination—the routine financial ceremony had just become a masterclass in strategic humiliation.

"Now then," I continued, "let’s address the real purpose of today’s gathering. If you would, please turn to page seventeen of the agreements you’ve just signed."

Papers rustled like dry leaves in a storm. Dr. Whitmore found it first. The blood drained from her face as she read the buried clause.

"There," I said softly, "the provision on institutional cooperation in matters of academic integrity verification. Harvard and Stanford have just bound themselves to full transparency in any investigation concerning the legitimacy of their degrees."

Professor Manning’s voice cracked. "This clause... it wasn’t part of the negotiations."

"No," Charlotte replied, her voice measured, almost gentle. "It wasn’t. But it’s binding now."

Dr. Kimberly’s eyes flicked frantically across the page. "What... what does this mean for us?"

Alice and Rebecca straightened in their seats, silent but unmistakably ready. I let them see my smile.

"It means that when stories about Charlotte Thompson’s allegedly fraudulent degrees hit the media in the next few hours, both of your institutions will face a choice. Cooperation—or complicity."

The trap had closed. The money was theirs, but the leverage was ours. And for the first time in a very long while, Harvard and Stanford sat on the wrong side of the negotiation table.

Charlotte’s smile was a blade unsheathed—silent, merciless, inevitable.

I paced the perimeter of the marble table like a reaper measuring coffins. Each step synced with the dying rhythm of their composure. Silence thickened until it choked—no breaths too loud, no rustle of fabric, just the hum of technology bearing witness.

"Let’s address what everyone here already knows," I said, voice low but carrying easily through the room and across the video feeds. "Charlotte’s degrees weren’t earned. They were purchased. Her father paid, your institutions accepted, and your principals signed off on credentials that never passed through classrooms or examinations."

Silence. Loaded. Toxic. The shared guilt hung heavy—not smoke, not fog, but smog. Industrial-grade complicity they’d breathed for years. Hoped would never ignite. Now? Exposed under fluorescent lights.

Whitmore’s mask dissolved completely. Shame flooded her features—raw, ancient. Dean Micha swallowed, throat working like a man fighting poison. Manning’s hands fisted beneath the table, hidden but rigid.

"These aren’t allegations," I continued, resuming my slow circuit. My reflection slid across the marble beside his bowed head. "These are facts. Known facts. Facts you’ve carried like stones in your pockets. Facts you’ve built reputations on top of. Facts that"—I paused beside Charlotte, meeting her gaze across the table—"are now legally enshrined in the documents you just signed."

Alice shifted. Rebecca’s chin lifted, a ghost of acknowledgment. Madison remained a column of quiet strength at my back.

The cameras watched. The administrators waited. The suffocating silence pressed down—crushing. Inescapable. And in its weight? The undeniable truth:

They weren’t victims of a trap.

They were architects of their own exposure.

And Peter Desiderion had just handed them the blueprint.