Chapter 9 - Conference Room B
The door to Conference Room B was heavy, soundproofed, and made of frosted glass that obscured whatever shadows moved behind it.
I pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room was dominated by a massive slab of polished black granite serving as a conference table. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping, panoramic view of the Boston harbor under a cold, steel-gray sky.
Sitting at the far end of the table was a man in his late fifties, impeccably tailored in a charcoal-gray bespoke suit, reading a thick leather-bound dossier. He didn't look up immediately as the door clicked shut behind me.
“Mrs. Foster,” he said smoothly, turning a page with a crisp, dry rustle of paper. “Punctual. I appreciate that. In our line of work, tardiness is usually a symptom of poor risk management.”
“Cut the corporate theater,” I said, walking uninvited toward the table and pulling out a chair directly opposite him, sitting down without breaking eye contact. “You have my name, you know my father’s estate, and you sent a goon squad in an unmarked sedan to intimidate me in my own driveway. State your terms and let’s get this over with.”
The man finally looked up. His eyes were a pale, washed-out blue, cold and sharp as chipped ice. He offered a thin, polite smile that didn't reach his eyes.
“My name is Julian Vance,” he introduced himself, lacing his fingers together on the granite table. “No relation to your father’s estate attorney, I assure you. I represent the private equity partners who extended a four-million-dollar bridge loan to your husband against your family’s manufacturing portfolio.”
“A loan backed by forged documents,” I countered instantly, sliding my leather folio across the table and popping open the brass latches. “Here are the original corporate governance charters. Under Section 9, any encumbrance, lien, or collateral assignment of Class A voting shares executed without the primary shareholder’s physical, notarized presence is legally null and void ab initio.”
Julian Vance didn't even glance at the papers sliding toward him. He simply smiled—a quiet, knowing smile that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“You’re entirely right, Mrs. Foster,” Vance said softly. “The signatures were forged. The routing numbers were falsified. Daniel was desperate, and desperate men make terrible scriveners.”
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I blinked, momentarily thrown off by his effortless concession. “Then you admit the debt is fraudulent. Why are you still trying to seize the estate?”
“Because,” Vance leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, lowering his voice into a confidential murmur, “our clients didn't lend Daniel money to make a profit on real estate interest. They used Daniel to force a structural default on your father’s company, clearing the way for a hostile takeover of the entire supply chain.”
