Chapter 6 - Retaliation in the Boardroom
At precisely seven-forty-five that morning, I stepped through the revolving glass doors of Vance Tower on Park Avenue.
I hadn’t slept. I hadn’t showered. I was still wearing the same tailored trousers and the black cashmere overcoat I had thrown on the previous afternoon, but beneath the coat, I had put on a fresh white dress shirt from my office gym locker. My knuckles were swollen and scabbed, my eyes rimmed with red veins, but my spine was straight as a steel girder.
When I stepped into the executive elevator and scanned my biometric pass, the security guard behind the marble desk did a double-take, his radio sputtering to life as he whispered into his lapel.
Eleanor was already here.
The 42nd floor smelled of polished teakwood, espresso, and fear. As the brass elevator doors parted, the floor fell completely silent. Dozens of junior analysts, administrative assistants, and paralegals froze in their cubicles, staring at me as if a dead man had just walked off the lift.
I walked directly toward the boardroom at the end of the hall.
Through the frosted glass doors, I could hear voices—elevated, sharp, and confident.
"We issue a statement at nine sharp," Julian’s voice rang out, sounding slightly nasal due to what I assumed was a broken nose and three loose teeth. "Logan Vance has taken an immediate leave of absence due to an acute family tragedy and personal psychological distress. Richard assumes interim operations, and Aunt Eleanor retains the Executive Chair."
"And the shares?" another voice asked—Marcus Kane, the head of legal.
"The surrogate court will sign the protective custody order by eleven," Eleanor’s crisp, aristocratic voice chimed in. "Once the court recognizes the medical invalidity of the pregnancy, the trust provisions dissolve automatically. We will proceed with the private offering to the Zurich group before the week ends."
I kicked the double mahogany doors open.
The heavy doors slammed against the drywall with a thunderous crack that shook the glass chandeliers.
The eight people seated around the thirty-foot marble conference table jumped out of their seats. Julian, his face wrapped in a massive white bandage covering his broken jaw and stitched lip, instinctively recoiled, knocking his leather portfolio to the floor. Richard stood frozen by the window, a cup of coffee halfway to his mouth.
Eleanor sat at the head of the table.
She wore a bespoke emerald-green Saint Laurent suit, her silver hair pinned back in an impeccable chignon, a string of South Sea pearls resting against her throat. She didn't flinch. She simply set her gold Montblanc pen down and looked at me with cold, venomous amusement.
"Logan," she said softly. "You're trespassing. As of six o'clock this morning, the executive committee voted to suspend your access privileges."
"The executive committee doesn't have a quorum without the sixty percent controlling bloc, Mother," I said, stepping into the room and closing the heavy doors behind me, clicking the brass lock into place.
Julian stepped behind two private security guards who were standing near the credenza. "Call building security! Get him out of here! He assaulted me last night! I have a restraining order pending!"
"You have a broken face, Julian," I said, walking slowly down the length of the marble table. "And in about five minutes, you’re going to have an indictment for attempted murder and corporate treason."
Eleanor let out a sharp, delicate laugh. "You're raving, Logan. Your grief over your wife’s unfortunate... domestic accident has clearly unhinged you. Marcus, show him the suspension paperwork."
"Marcus shouldn't touch that paper unless he wants to be disbarred by noon," an elderly, booming voice came from the doorway.
The side door to the executive suite opened.
Arthur Sterling stepped into the room, leaning on a polished silver-topped cane. Behind him were two federal couriers carrying heavy, padlocked metal lockboxes, followed by two armed US Marshals.
Eleanor’s face lost every single drop of its color. The emerald suit seemed to swallow her whole as she gripped the armrests of her high-backed leather chair, her knuckles turning bone-white.
"Arthur?" Richard stammered, dropping his coffee cup. The porcelain shattered on the Persian rug, dark liquid soaking into the antique wool. "What the hell is this? You were fired three years ago!"
"I was fired as Vance Global’s corporate counsel," Arthur said, adjusting his spectacles as he walked to the head of the table. "I was never fired as the personal executor of Charles Vance’s testamentary estate. And under Article Nine, Section Four of the decedent’s charter, the executor reserves the unilateral right to freeze all corporate actions, dissolve executive board authorities, and seize company servers if criminal malfeasance against the lineal heir is detected."
Arthur looked at Eleanor, his lips curling into a cold, ruthless smile.
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"Good morning, Eleanor," Arthur said. "We opened safe-deposit box 409 at J.P. Morgan an hour ago. The federal fraud division has already begun mirroring Julian's Cayman accounts."
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