Chapter 7 - The Conference Room B Encounter
Ten minutes later, I pushed open the frosted glass door of Conference Room B.
Arthur Vance sat at the far end of the long conference table. The transformation in three short months was staggering. The man who had once worn bespoke Savile Row suits and exuded an arrogant, untouchable aura of old-money privilege now looked like a ghost of his former self. His silver hair was uncombed and dull, his tailored charcoal suit hung loosely off his shrunken frame, and his hands trembled noticeably as he clutched a paper cup of lukewarm black coffee.
When I entered the room, he started instinctively to stand up, as if preparing to greet me with his usual patronizing charm, but his legs seemed to fail him halfway. He sank back down into his chair, his eyes bloodshot and hollow.
“Claire,” he rasped, his voice cracking with a pathetic mixture of humiliation and exhaustion.
I didn’t offer my hand. I walked straight to the head of the table, pulling out my chair and seating myself with absolute poise. Mara stood quietly by the door, her arms folded, her tablet ready to record every word. Two security guards stood like statues near the exit.
“Cut the preamble, Arthur,” I said evenly, resting my elbows on the table. “You have ten minutes before I have security escort you back down to the lobby. What do you have?”
Arthur swallowed hard, his throat working convulsively. He reached into his oversized briefcase with shaking fingers and pulled out a stack of faded, handwritten financial ledgers and offshore wire transfer receipts. He slid them across the polished wood toward me.
“These... these are the secondary ledgers,” Arthur whispered, his voice trembling. “The offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands and Zurich that Grant and I set up to siphon operational capital away from the primary corporate holdings before you even entered the picture. If the federal bankruptcy court uncovers these through our internal channels, we’re looking at decades in federal prison for wire fraud and securities manipulation.”
I glanced down at the documents, my trained eyes instantly scanning the account numbers, routing codes, and signatures. Even upside down, I could recognize the unmistakable signature of Arthur Vance—and right beside it, the careless, looping handwriting of his golden son, Grant.
“And why are you handing me incriminating evidence against yourself and your son?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Surely you realize these documents only deepen your legal liability.”
“Because,” Arthur muttered, burying his face in his trembling hands for a brief second before looking up with desperate, pleading eyes, “Grant is entirely unhinged. He spends his days drinking in cheap bars in Queens, blaming everyone but himself, screaming about how you ruined his life, threatening to do something stupid. I want out, Claire. I want whatever immunity or leniency Northstar can broker with the federal prosecutors in exchange for handing over every single cryptographic key and asset location on a silver platter.”
I stared at the old man for a long, silent moment. There was no triumph in my heart—only a cold, clinical recognition of human weakness. Greed, arrogance, and the refusal to take accountability had dismantled a dynasty that took a century to build, all in a matter of weeks.
“Mara,” I said without breaking eye contact with Arthur.
“Yes, Claire?” Mara responded instantly.
“Take these ledgers. Have our forensic audit team cross-reference every routing code with our current asset recovery files. If these accounts contain unrecovered funds that rightfully belong to the creditors and investors we represent, initiate immediate international freezing orders.”
I turned my gaze back to Arthur, who watched me with bated breath, looking like a condemned prisoner waiting for a judge's final verdict.
“As for your plea for leniency, Arthur,” I continued smoothly, my voice cold as ice. “Northstar Capital does not negotiate with fraudsters. However, if your cooperation with the federal trustees results in the successful recovery of hidden assets, my legal team will note your voluntary surrender of documents in our official victim impact statement. That is the absolute limit of what you will ever get from me.”
Arthur slumped back in his chair, the last remaining trace of color draining from his face. He knew it wasn’t mercy, but it was the only lifeline left in a storm of his own making.
May you like
“Thank you, Claire,” he whispered hoarsely, gathering his remaining papers with trembling hands.
“Get him out of my sight, Mara,” I said, standing up and smoothing my blazer.
