Chapter 7 - The Hostile Boardroom
The headquarters of Fairmont & Cole Realty occupied the top floor of a restored historic brick building in the heart of South End, Charlotte’s trendy design district.
The office was an exercise in performative luxury: polished concrete floors, exposed ductwork painted matte black, floor-to-ceiling glass partitions, and a sprawling marble espresso bar where twenty junior real estate agents stood sipping oat-milk lattes, dressed in designer suits they couldn't afford.
When Orson Price, Uncle Baxter, and I walked through the frosted glass double doors at precisely ten-fifty, the ambient chatter in the reception lounge died instantly.
The receptionist, a young woman wearing heavy gold jewelry who had spent years sneering at me whenever I dropped off my sister’s forgotten dry cleaning, blinked in confusion.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her gaze sweeping over my dark suit and landing on the small bandage on my lip. "If you're here for an appraisal drop-off, the vendor bins are in the service corridor behind the elevators."
"I'm not here for a drop-off," I said smoothly. "Call Julian Cole and Marcus Fairmont into the main conference room immediately."
"Excuse me? Mr. Cole and Mr. Fairmont are preparing for the quarterly all-hands meeting. They don't take unscheduled vendor inquiries—"
"They take this one," Orson Price said, stepping forward and flashing a certified copy of the state corporate registry amendment bearing the gold seal of North Carolina. "Tell them the majority shareholder has arrived to assume operational control."
The receptionist’s mouth fell open. She looked at the document, then at Uncle Baxter, whose face was well-known among Charlotte’s commercial elite, and scrambled for her phone with shaking fingers.
Two minutes later, the double doors of the executive suite flew open.
Julian Cole, a slick fifty-year-old with dyed black hair and an expensive linen blazer, rushed out alongside Marcus Fairmont, an older, anxious-looking man whose tie was slightly askew. They looked like two men who had just watched their house catch fire from the inside out.
"Cordelia... Miss Carter," Julian stammered, wiping a film of sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief. "We... we were expecting your formal transition team on Monday. We didn't realize you would be arriving in person today."
"I prefer to inspect my investments directly, Julian," I said, my voice carrying clearly across the open-plan office. Every single agent at the espresso bar had stopped talking, their eyes wide as they stared at the scene. "Is the conference room prepared?"
"Yes, of course! Right this way," Marcus Fairmont said hastily, holding the glass door open for us.
We took our seats around the fourteen-foot live-edge walnut conference table. Outside the glass walls, thirty agents had gathered in clusters, whispering frantically behind their tablets, trying to figure out why an unknown woman flanked by two prominent corporate attorneys was sitting in the owner's chair.
"Let's make this brief, gentlemen," I said, resting my hands flat on the polished wood. "Northline Asset Strategies purchased fifty-one percent of Fairmont & Cole for three-point-two million dollars in debt assumption and working capital injection. Under the terms of our operating agreement, the restructuring of the agency’s sales roster begins today."
"Whatever you need, Miss Carter," Julian Cole said eagerly, nodding like a bobblehead. "We know the firm’s overhead has been bloated. We are fully prepared to execute your directives."
Before I could speak, the front entrance of the office banged open with an obnoxious, reverberating clatter.
Lavinia marched into the lobby.
She had posted bail two hours earlier, financed by an emergency cash advance Alistair had drawn against his 401(k) at a catastrophic fifty-percent penalty rate. She had spent an hour at a salon trying to repair her makeup, wearing an oversized pair of designer sunglasses to hide the dark circles beneath her eyes, dressed in an emerald-green pantsuit that screamed for attention.
She had no idea her car had been repossessed; she had taken an Uber from the magistrate’s office directly to South End, desperate to project normalcy before the rumors of her arrest could spread.
"Julian! Marcus!" Lavinia’s voice cut through the office like a siren as she strutted toward the executive suite. "I need an immediate commission advance against the South Boulevard closing! My personal banking app is showing an administrative error, and I need a company draft issued before noon!"
She pushed open the conference room door without knocking.
"Julian, I told you that my client Soren Vale is ready to move forward, and I require—"
Lavinia stopped dead in her tracks.
Her designer sunglasses slipped down the bridge of her nose.
Sitting at the head of the boardroom table, flanked by Orson Price and Uncle Baxter, was the sister she had beaten with a leather belt eighteen hours ago.
"Cordelia?" Lavinia whispered, her voice cracking in utter, disbelieving horror. "What... what are you doing here?! Julian, why is she sitting in your chair?! Security! Call security and have this girl removed from the premises!"
Julian Cole didn't look at her with his usual accommodating smile. He looked at her with pure, unadulterated disgust.
"Sit down and shut your mouth, Lavinia," Julian snapped, his voice cold as iron.
May you like
Lavinia blinked, staggered by the rebuke. "What did you say to me?!"
"You are speaking to the majority owner and managing principal of Fairmont & Cole Realty," Orson Price stated, sliding a single sheet of paper across the table toward her. "And as of ten-forty-five this morning, your independent contractor agreement with this brokerage has been terminated for cause."
