Chapter 23 - The Poisoned Boardroom
Before our landing gear could touch the tarmac at Kloten Airport, my secure satellite line erupted. It was Marcus Vance, my father’s younger brother and the vice chairman of our European logistics board.
"Victoria, turn the plane around," Marcus barked without greeting me. The background noise on his end was deafening—alarms, shuttering camera lenses, and the sharp shouts of German-speaking security guards. "All hell has broken loose."
"Speak plainly, Marcus," I demanded, stepping into the armored Maybach waiting for me on the rain-slicked runway. "I have no patience for dramatics today."
"The Swiss Federal Banking Commission just froze our primary clearing houses in Geneva and Basel," he said, breathing heavily. "Someone submitted an original, wet-ink codicil to Alexander’s 2015 last will and testament. It contains a liquidation clause triggered by an 'act of severe corporate instability.' They are citing the public scandal with Ricardo and Camilla, the fire sale of the Monterrey estate, and the viral social media implosion."
"A liquidation clause?" I snarled, the leather seats creaking as my fingers dug into them. "I hold sixty-two percent of the voting shares!"
"Not anymore," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "The codicil stipulates that if the heir-apparent engages in public actions that devalue the brand by more than twenty percent in a single fiscal quarter, sovereign control reverts to a blind oversight board designated by Alexander himself. And that board just voted forty minutes ago to strip you of your executive powers. They are liquidating the assets, Victoria. They’re selling Vance Global out from under you to a sovereign wealth consortium based in Riyadh."
The car shot out of the airport perimeter, barreling toward the financial district under a canopy of gray, weeping clouds.
"Who sits on the oversight board, Marcus?"
Silence stretched across the line, suffocating and heavy.
"Tell me!" I roared.
"The chairman of the oversight board... is registered as Alexander Vance," Marcus whispered. "He walked into the Baur au Lac hotel twenty minutes ago, flanked by eight armed private contractors. He’s alive, Victoria. He’s alive, and he’s holding a press conference at noon to announce your total termination from the company."
I looked at the dashboard clock. It was 11:14 AM.
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"Drive faster," I told the chauffeur, tapping the glass partition with the steel tip of my umbrella. "If my father wants a press conference, I’m going to give him a funeral instead."
***
