Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Boardroom
By Thursday afternoon, the tension inside the executive suites of Vance Global on Wall Street was thick enough to choke on.
Julian Vance paced behind his Brazilian rosewood desk, loosening his silk tie with an agitated yank. The panoramic views of the Hudson River did nothing to soothe the sudden, creeping paranoia gnawing at his gut.
On the desk before him sat three separate memos from the compliance division. All three flagged unusual audit queries initiated early that morning from an external IP address linked to Kirkland & Ellis.
Julian slammed his hand on the wood, glaring at his chief corporate counsel, Donald Ross, who sat sweating in an armchair.
“What do you mean, an internal equity review?” Julian snarled. “I didn't authorize any review! The Al-Mansoor deal closes tomorrow night at the Gala! Who gave these bastards access to the founding ledgers?”
Donald swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Julian, the request didn't come from your office. It came through Arthur’s channel. As co-founder and fifty-percent voting trustee on operational matters, Arthur has unilateral authority to initiate pre-acquisition forensic due diligence.”
“Arthur?” Julian hissed, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “Arthur is a glorified logistics engineer. He doesn't have the stomach for corporate warfare. Why is he poking around the 2007 incorporation docs now?”
“I don't know,” Donald murmured, wiping his brow with a linen handkerchief. “And there’s something else. The Massachusetts State Archives sent a courier to our legal department this morning. They served a formal notice of investigation regarding a revoked notary seal from 2007.”
Julian’s heart skipped a violent beat.
*The Boston brownstone.*
A bead of cold sweat slid down his spine, disappearing into the collar of his thousand-dollar shirt. For eighteen years, that document had gathered dust in an obscure Delaware repository. He had paid the corrupt Boston notary ten thousand dollars in cash back in 2007 to stamp the Power of Attorney while Evelyn was at home recovering from postpartum depression. The notary had died five years ago. There was no way anyone could connect the dots.
*Unless someone knew where to look.*
Julian grabbed his phone and dialed his mother’s private line.
“Julian?” his mother’s frail, shrill voice answered on the second ring. “Is everything alright? Camilla was here earlier, measuring the sunroom for new curtains. She wants to throw out your grandmother’s antique credenza—”
“Mother, shut up and listen to me,” Julian cut her off harshly. “Has anyone contacted you today? Anyone from the SEC? Any corporate attorneys asking about your offshore trusts in the Caymans?”
“What? No! Julian, you know I don't understand any of that business nonsense. You just told me to sign those papers every December and gave me my allowance.”
“If anyone calls, you say nothing. You hang up and call my office immediately. Do you understand?”
“Julian, you're scaring me—”
He disconnected the call without saying goodbye.
Julian ran a trembling hand through his hair, turning to Donald Ross. “Have you heard from Evelyn?”
Donald blinked, confused by the sudden shift. “Your wife? No. Why would I?”
Julian sneered, though the arrogance in his voice felt hollow even to his own ears. “She’s been silent for four days. No calls, no frantic texts, no lawyers reaching out for an emergency support hearing. She has no money, Donald. I checked her accounts yesterday; she hasn't spent a single dollar. A woman with two starving kids doesn't just disappear into thin air. She should be clawing at my door.”
“Maybe she went to her family in Ohio?” Donald suggested.
“Her parents are dead, and her cousins are dirt poor,” Julian muttered, looking out over the city. “She has nowhere to go. She’s probably rotting in some church shelter in Bridgeport, too humiliated to show her face.”
He straightened his posture, forcing the dark thoughts out of his mind. He was Julian Vance. He had built this empire from nothing. Tomorrow night, the Al-Mansoor consortium would hand him an eighty-million-dollar wire transfer. With that kind of capital, he could buy his way out of any regulatory inquiry. He would pay off Arthur, bury the Delaware trust under a mountain of international litigation, and sail into the Mediterranean before any prosecutor could even draft an indictment.
“Get the final signature packets ready for tomorrow night,” Julian commanded, his voice cold and resolute. “I want the press notified. I want the *Wall Street Journal*, *Bloomberg*, and *Forbes* present when I execute the buyout at the Gala. We announce the sale at precisely ten o'clock.”
“And Arthur?” Donald asked quietly.
May you like
Julian gave a cruel, dismissive smirk. “Arthur will smile for the cameras, take his minority buyout check, and fade into irrelevance. And if Evelyn ever decides to crawl out of the gutter, she can watch me become a centi-millionaire on the evening news.”
***
