Chapter 7 - The Audit Comes Due
The silence in the auditorium was instantaneous and total. The cameras, which had been focused on Jasmine Rivers, swiveled en masse toward the stage, their red recording lights blinking like hungry eyes.
Camden’s flushed face drained of color, then darkened into fury. He stepped toward Vicki, lowering his voice, though the lapel microphone picked up every rasping hiss.
“Get off this stage, Vicki,” he snarled. “You’re having a public breakdown. Security! Security, remove this woman immediately!”
Two security guards in dark suits moved toward the stage from the side wings.
Before they could take three steps, Arthur Vance raised a leather portfolio and stepped between them and the stage stairs.
“Officers,” Arthur said, his elderly voice carrying the unmistakable weight of decades in federal courts. “I am Arthur Vance, General Counsel for Vance Heritage Holdings and Trustee of the Apex Syndicate. If either of you touches Mrs. Tatum, you will be personally named in an unlawful restraint and battery civil suit by five o'clock today. Stand down.”
The guards looked at Arthur’s credentials, looked at the state financial investigators standing behind him, and immediately stepped back against the wall.
Camden’s hands began to shake. “This is my company! I am the Chairman! I own sixty-two percent of the voting equity!”
Vicki took three slow, deliberate steps toward him. Each click of her heels on the wooden stage sounded like the cocking of a rifle.
“You own nothing, Camden,” she said softly, her words projected to the five hundred frozen executives in the room. “You never did.”
She tapped her tablet, and the massive electric-blue screen behind them flickered.
The promotional video disappeared. In its place appeared a high-resolution scan of the Tatum Meridian Master Operating Agreement, with Section 14, Subsection B highlighted in bright crimson.
“The Apex-Vance Trust holds the sole voting authority of this firm,” Vicki announced, looking directly into the primary broadcast camera. “Camden Tatum was granted an equitable proxy under strict operational conditions. Last night, at eleven-fifteen PM, those conditions were permanently breached.”
The screen shifted.
A collective gasp ripped through the audience.
Displayed across a forty-foot digital canvas was the crystal-clear security footage from the Meridian Hotel ballroom.
The video played with excruciating clarity: Camden, champagne flute in hand, his face twisted in a drunken sneer, pulling back his polished leather shoe and driving it directly into Vicki’s ribs. The audio captured the sickening thud of impact, the gasp of the crowd, and Jasmine Rivers’ high, amused laughter.
In the front row, Jasmine froze, her face turning gray as every person sitting within ten feet of her physically recoiled away from her chair.
“Under Clause 8.4 of the Operating Agreement,” Vicki continued, her voice entirely devoid of emotion, “any act of physical violence or criminal moral turpitude committed by the managing partner triggers immediate, total, and irreversible forfeiture of all corporate titles, stock options, and operational authority.”
Camden lunged forward, grabbing for Vicki’s microphone. “Shut it off! Shut the screens off!”
Vicki didn’t flinch. She didn’t move an inch.
Two plainclothes state investigators stepped onto the stage, intercepting Camden by the arms and pinning him back.
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“Mr. Tatum,” the lead investigator announced, pulling a badge from his jacket. “Step away from Mrs. Tatum. You are under arrest.”
***
