Chapter 6 - The Eviction of Sloane Whitaker
“For cause?” Sloane gasped, tears of rage finally breaking through her carefully curated composure. Her manicured hands trembled on the dark mahogany surface of the conference table. “You can’t do that! Grant, tell them! Tell them she can’t just walk in here with some hired accountant and strip me of my title!”
Grant lunged forward, slamming both palms down on the dossier. “This is an outrage, Sterling! Sloane is an executive officer appointed under my purview! You don’t have the operational jurisdiction to dismiss senior staff without a full quorum vote of the executive committee!”
Arthur Sterling did not so much as flinch. He adjusted the cuff of his charcoal bespoke suit and looked at Grant with the cold, pitying neutrality of a surgeon examining an inoperable tumor.
“You might want to review Subsection 14-B of the Master Operating Agreement, Mr. Mercer,” Sterling said quietly. “Under the covenants of the Hale Trust capitalization indenture, any officer who commingles fiduciary capital with personal expenditures in excess of fifty thousand dollars is subject to summary termination upon discovery. There is no executive quorum required. In fact, if the board failed to terminate her within sixty minutes of notice, every director sitting at this table would incur joint and several personal liability for civil fraud.”
A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the boardroom.
Marcus Webb, the senior outside director who had backed Grant for five years, slowly leaned back in his chair. He looked at Sloane, then at Grant, and pushed his chair back several inches from the table.
“Security has already deactivated Miss Whitaker’s keycard,” Madison announced, glancing at her tablet with clockwork precision. “Her company-leased Porsche Taycan has been remotely disabled in the underground garage, and two building security guards are currently waiting outside the door to escort her off the premises. Miss Whitaker, you have ten minutes to collect your personal effects under supervision.”
“Grant!” Sloane shrieked, her voice cracking as the mahogany double doors swung open. Two uniformed security guards stepped into the room, their expressions stone-faced. “Do something! You promised me this company was yours!”
“Sloane, be quiet and go to my office,” Grant hissed, his temples throbbing, beads of sweat breaking out across his forehead. “I’ll handle this. It’s an administrative misunderstanding. Just go!”
“It is not a misunderstanding, Miss Whitaker,” Sterling added smoothly. “And you will not be entering Mr. Mercer’s office. All offices on the forty-second floor are currently locked under forensic quarantine. Your coat and handbag are in the reception foyer. Gentlemen, please escort her out.”
Sloane looked around the room, searching desperately for an ally, but every director kept their eyes glued to the papers in front of them. Humiliated, shaking with indignation, she clutched her designer purse to her chest and stormed out, her stilettos clicking sharply on the Italian marble until the doors clicked shut behind her.
Grant stood frozen, his chest heaving. He looked at Sterling, then at Madison, the sudden realization of his total isolation sinking its claws into his spine.
May you like
“Now, Mr. Mercer,” Sterling said, uncapping a gold fountain pen and sliding a thick blue folder directly in front of Grant. “We come to the matter of your own tenure.”
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