Chapter 7 - THE RESTRUCTURING
Six weeks later, the global financial press had stopped talking about the scandal and started talking about the turnaround.
The launch of Frontier Strategic Ventures was officially slated for the second week of December. In the high-stakes corridors of Wall Street and Silicon Valley, the emergence of a new sovereign-backed private equity firm with ten billion dollars in initial capital was an earthquake. But what truly set the financial dailies on fire was the announcement of the managing partner.
*THE WALL STREET JOURNAL* ran the full-page profile on a Tuesday morning:
**THE ARCHITECT OF THE SHADOWS STEPS FORWARD: HOW JENNA VANCE BUILT AN EMPIRE BENEATH THE RADAR.**
The accompanying portrait, shot in the minimalist mahogany library of my Beacon Hill brownstone, showed me sitting in an Eames chair, wearing an ivory Ralph Lauren blazer, looking straight into the camera with cool, unblinking authority. There was no mention of Nicholas. There was no mention of my parents. There was only a forensic breakdown of the seventy-eight cross-border acquisitions, sovereign restructurings, and crisis negotiations my firm had secretly managed over the previous five years.
The article sent shockwaves through New England society.
At 11:30 AM, my private office at Frontier Strategic Ventures was quiet except for the low hum of the Bloomberg terminal. The office was located on the forty-second floor of the newly christened Stewart Tower, wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass that looked out over the Charles River.
My executive assistant, Claire—a brilliant twenty-six-year-old Harvard Law graduate whom I had personally poached from a white-shoe firm in New York—stepped into the office, carrying a leather-bound folder and an iPad.
“Jenna,” Claire said, her voice crisp and respectful. “The preliminary term sheets for the Munich aerospace syndicate are finalized. Emmett signed his portion twenty minutes ago. We’re just waiting on your countersignature before the wire transfers clear the Frankfurt exchange.”
“Bring them over,” I said, not looking up from the analytical dashboard displaying our fourth-quarter currency hedges.
Claire set the folder on my desk, but hesitated, lingering by the edge of the glass console.
“Is there something else, Claire?” I asked, glancing up.
Claire cleared her throat slightly, looking mildly uncomfortable. “There are three people in the public lobby on the ground floor, Jenna. Security called up ten minutes ago. They don't have appointments, but the woman is causing a significant scene with the concierge desk, claiming she is the mother of the managing partner.”
A faint, tired sigh slipped through my lips.
“Eleanor,” I murmured.
“Yes,” Claire confirmed, checking her iPad. “Eleanor Vance, accompanied by Richard Vance and... a young man who refused to give his name, wearing a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses. The security supervisor wanted to know if you wanted them removed by building security or the Boston Police.”
I leaned back in my leather chair, tapping my Montblanc pen against the blotter.
Part of me—the wounded, twenty-two-year-old girl who had spent years weeping into her pillow after Sunday dinners—wanted to have them thrown out onto the wet pavement of Federal Street like common vagrants. That would have been the dramatic, theatrical vengeance Nicholas would have engineered if the positions were reversed.
But theater was for the weak. Sovereignty was about control.
“Don't call the police, Claire,” I said smoothly. “Escort them up to Conference Room D. The small one with the frosted glass, right beside the service elevators. Do not offer them coffee. Do not offer them water. And inform security that they are not permitted to wander into the trading floor under any circumstances.”
Claire’s eyes flashed with quiet amusement. “Understood, Jenna.”
Ten minutes later, I stood outside Conference Room D.
Through the frosted glass, I could see three distinct silhouettes. My mother was pacing nervously back and forth, clutching her designer handbag like a shield. My father was slumped in an ergonomic swivel chair, looking twenty years older than he had at the wedding in Vermont. Nicholas was sitting in the corner, his head in his hands, his shoulders hunched in absolute defeat.
I adjusted the cuffs of my ivory blazer, opened the heavy glass door, and stepped into the room.
The latch clicked shut behind me with the precision of a bank vault.
All three of them whipped around.
Eleanor gasped, her hand flying to her throat. She looked at me—really looked at me—taking in the bespoke tailoring, the diamond-encrusted Patek Philippe on my wrist, and the cold, unyielding authority in my posture.
For the first time in her life, my mother did not smile her condescending, high-society smile.
May you like
“Jenna,” Eleanor breathed, her voice trembling with an unsettling mixture of awe, greed, and terror. “Darling... look at this place. Look at what you’ve done.”
***
