Chapter 7 - The Panic at Sterling & Vance
The phone buzzed continuously against Gregory’s palm, a relentless electronic heartbeat that filled the silent dining room. He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the decline button as if touching it would make the nightmare disappear.
“Answer it, Greg,” I murmured, leaning back against the edge of the dining table with my arms crossed over my chest. “Arthur’s probably calling to congratulate you on your creative bookkeeping. Or maybe he wants to talk about how a multi-million-dollar fraud liability affects your partnership status.”
With a trembling finger, Gregory swiped the screen and pressed the phone to his ear, his voice tight and breathless. “Arthur... look, I can explain—the audit is a misunderstanding—!”
Whatever Arthur Sterling shouted on the other end of the line, it was loud enough to bleed through the speaker. Gregory flinched, pulling the phone away from his ear for a split second as a torrent of furious, profane corporate screaming echoed across the room.
“Are you out of your absolute mind, Miller?!” Arthur’s voice boomed through the receiver, frantic and enraged. “Federal marshals just walked into the compliance department with a court-ordered asset freeze! Every single subsidiary account linked to your ID has been locked down! The entire firm is exposed to an SEC compliance raid because of your offshore shell games!”
“It’s a domestic dispute—my wife filed a premature—!” Gregory stammered, all his cool, arrogant composure completely evaporating. He looked like a cornered animal, frantically pacing across the hardwood floor.
“Your wife just handed a complete forensic accounting ledger to Marcus Vance!” Arthur roared back. “If the regulatory board finds out what we buried in those real estate trusts, we’re all going to federal prison! Fix this, Miller, or you won't just lose your license—you won't ever see daylight again!”
The line went dead with a harsh electronic click.
Gregory slowly lowered the phone, his hand shaking so badly he nearly dropped it. He turned back to look at me, the predatory confidence he had worn like armor just hours ago completely shattered.
“You... you went to Marcus Vance,” Gregory whispered, his voice hollow. “You actually hired him.”
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“Did you really think I was going to sit back and let you steal my son and leave me with nothing?” I asked, stepping away from the table and walking toward the stairs. I paused at the bottom step, looking back over my shoulder. “That was your first mistake, Greg. You mistook my exhaustion for weakness.”
Before he could lunge forward or speak another word, the sharp, urgent wail of a police siren echoed from down the street, rapidly growing louder as it turned onto our quiet suburban cul-de-sac.
