Chapter 11 - THE ECHOES OF THE PAST
-11-
Life in the upper echelons of the global corporate elite rarely slows down, even when you own the infrastructure that keeps the world connected. By late summer, Harrison Technologies was preparing for its most ambitious project yet: Project Horizon, a multi-billion-dollar initiative to establish free, high-speed digital education networks in underprivileged school districts across North America.
It was a project deeply personal to me. Before I had access to quantum supercomputers and private jets, I had spent my teenage years volunteering at underfunded public libraries, teaching kids how to code on obsolete, donated computers.
I sat in my 80th-floor boardroom in Manhattan, reviewing the philanthropic disbursement schedules with a team of regional directors, when the secure intercom on my desk chimed.
"Evangeline," Marcus Vance’s voice cut through the room. "I’m sorry to interrupt your meeting, but you have an unexpected visitor waiting in the private reception lounge."
I paused, looking up from my tablet. "Marcus, we discussed this. No unscheduled visitors. If it’s a journalist, refer them to PR; if it’s an investor, tell them to book through the executive assistant."
"It’s neither," Marcus said, pausing for a beat. "It’s Natasha Sterling."
The name dropped into the boardroom like a lead weight.
For a fraction of a second, the directors around the table stopped whispering, sensing the sudden shift in the atmospheric pressure of the room. Natasha Sterling—the venomous younger sister who had laughed while ripping the strap of my $40 yellow dress—was currently sitting in my building.
"Send her in," I instructed coldly, my voice devoid of any emotion.
"Evangeline, are you sure?" Marcus asked, clearly concerned. "I can have security remove her before she even reaches the elevator."
"No, Marcus," I said, standing up smoothly and smoothing down the front of my tailored white blazer. "Let her up. I want to see what a hawk looks like when it’s begging for crumbs from a sparrow."
Five minutes later, the private elevator doors chimed.
Natasha Sterling stepped out into the 80th-floor foyer. Gone were the designer gowns, the diamond jewelry, and the smug, untouchable sneer of a socialite princess. She wore a faded, oversized denim jacket, cheap sneakers, and her hair was tied back in a greasy, unwashed ponytail. Her face was pale, drawn, and streaked with the lingering traces of panic.
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She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw me standing at the head of the boardroom table, bathed in the natural sunlight pouring through the massive glass windows.
"Evangeline..." Natasha whispered, her voice cracking as she took a tentative, trembling step forward.
