Chapter 9 - THE NEW CHAIRWOMAN
Z
Three months later, the corner office on the forty-second floor of Vance Enterprises no longer looked like Robert’s sanctuary of dark mahogany and cigar-scented nostalgia.
The heavy brown curtains had been ripped down, replaced by sheer white shades that flooded the massive space with blinding, uninterrupted sunlight. The walls were painted a crisp, brilliant cream, and the heavy leather furniture had been swapped for sleek, modern glass and brushed steel.
Behind the massive glass desk sat a framed photograph. It wasn't of Robert, nor was it of the corporate ribbon-cuttings from decades past. It was a picture taken two weeks prior: Hanna, Steven, and me standing on the lawn of my home, laughing under the summer sun, holding glasses of iced tea.
A sharp knock sounded on the open frosted-glass door.
My new executive assistant, Sarah—a brilliant twenty-eight-year-old law graduate I had personally hired to replace Arthur Pendelton's former sycophants—stepped into the room holding a tablet.
"Good morning, Chairwoman," Sarah said with a crisp, respectful smile. "The regional directors for the retail division are assembled in Boardroom A. The press release regarding the total dismissal of the federal civil claims against the parent company was just picked up by the Wall Street Journal."
I set down my pen, adjusting the lapels of my tailored cream blazer. "And Claire’s plea agreement?"
Sarah’s smile sharpened slightly. "Her attorneys accepted the eight-year sentence this morning. No parole eligibility for the first five years. She’ll be serving her time at the federal facility in Danbury."
I leaned back in my chair, looking out at the glittering skyline. Eight years. It was a merciful sentence considering the millions she had tried to steal and the lives she had attempted to destroy, but it was enough. Claire would spend the best years of her middle age behind cinderblock walls, thinking about the woman she had tried to treat as a sacrificial lamb.
"Thank you, Sarah," I said. "Tell the directors I will be there in five minutes."
"Of course, Chairwoman." Sarah bowed her head slightly and stepped out, closing the glass door softly behind her.
I stood up and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city below was bustling, filled with thousands of people rushing to their own lives, their own struggles, their own quiet battles.
My phone rang on the desk. I picked it up. It was Steven.
"Hey, Mom," he said, his voice bright and energetic. "Just checking in before your board meeting. Are we still on for dinner at seven?"
"We are," I replied, a genuine smile touching my lips. "Hanna is bringing the wine, right?"
"She promised she wouldn't buy the cheap stuff this time," Steven chuckled. "Oh, by the way... I stopped by the old house yesterday to check on the landscaping like you asked. A box came in the mail for you. It was forwarded from Dad's old private post box in Delaware."
I paused, my fingers tightening slightly around the phone. "Delaware?"
"Yeah. It’s small, wrapped in heavy brown paper. It was postdated four days before he died. Do you want me to bring it to dinner tonight?"
A cold shadow, faint but distinct, brushed against the back of my neck. Delaware was where Robert had incorporated the initial shell accounts for Aegis Holdings.
"No," I said, my voice dropping back into its measured, careful rhythm. "Bring it to my office now, Steven. Before the meeting."
"Is everything okay, Mom?"
"Everything is fine," I said, looking at my reflection in the high-rise glass. "Just bring it."
Ten minutes later, Steven walked into my penthouse office holding a small, heavy package no larger than a hardcover book. It was wrapped in thick kraft paper, sealed with silver duct tape, and addressed to Greta Vance in Robert's distinct, sharp cursive handwriting.
Steven set it on my glass desk, looking at it with a mixture of curiosity and deep unease. "Do you want me to open it?"
"No," I said. "I'll do it."
I picked up a silver letter opener from my desk. I sliced through the silver tape, peeling back the heavy brown paper. Inside was a small, locked metal dispatch box.
Taped to the top of the box was a small brass key and a single index card with three lines written in Robert's handwriting:
“Greta. If you are reading this, it means Claire failed, and you won. You were always smarter than I allowed you to be. But winning has a price. What’s inside this box doesn't belong to Vance Enterprises. It belongs to the people who funded my first loan in 1994. They are coming for it.”
Steven gasped, leaning over the desk to read the card. "What... what is he talking about? What loan in 1994?"
I looked at the brass key lying against the cold metal box.
May you like
My mother’s inheritance had saved Robert's business in 1994. But Robert hadn't just used her money. He had used her money as collateral to borrow money from someone else—someone he had spent thirty years hiding from.
I picked up the key.
