Chapter 8 - The Boardroom
The corporate headquarters of Fairmont & Cole occupied the top floor of a granite-and-glass tower in SouthPark, overlooking the lush green canopy of South Charlotte.
It was designed to project absolute stability: Italian marble floors, floor-to-ceiling glass partitions, and a reception area featuring a massive bronze sculpture of an eagle taking flight. But underneath the expensive finishes, the air smelled like fear.
When I walked through the double glass doors at eleven-fifteen, the reception area went dead silent.
I still had the butterfly bandage across my cheekbone, and my lower lip was visibly swollen. But I had changed into a navy wool suit, sharply tailored, and carried a leather portfolio stamped with the Northline crest. Behind me walked Orson Price and Uncle Baxter.
Baxter looked around the lobby with a look of profound disgust.
“Thirty thousand a month for this lease,” Baxter muttered, chomping on an unlit cigar. “And half the desks don't even have computers on them. It’s an empty theater.”
The remaining senior partners—Julian Cole and Arthur Vance—were waiting in the primary conference room.
Julian was sixty, with silver hair smoothed back with pomade and the nervous, twitching hands of a gambler who had realized the casino was calling his markers. Arthur, a heavyset man who had founded the agency twenty years earlier, looked like he hadn't slept in three days.
As I sat down at the head of the long walnut conference table, both men remained standing until I gestured for them to take their seats.
“Miss Carter,” Julian began, his voice clearing with an effort. “Or... Managing Director Carter. First, let us express our absolute horror at what occurred this morning. We received the notice from the sheriff’s office regarding Lavinia’s... regarding the altercation.”
“We’re not here to discuss Lavinia’s assault charges, Mr. Cole,” I said, opening my portfolio. “Those are being handled by the state. We’re here to discuss the fact that this firm has twenty-four hours before its commercial operating line is called by Wells Fargo.”
Arthur Vance swallowed hard. “Baxter indicated that Northline was prepared to inject four hundred thousand dollars in immediate debtor-in-possession financing to stabilize the payroll.”
“I am,” I said. “On three conditions.”
Julian leaned forward, his pen hovering over a blank legal pad. “Name them.”
“First: every independent contractor agreement currently on file is terminated by five o’clock today. Any agent who has not closed at least one verified, arms-length commercial transaction or two residential sales exceeding one million dollars in the last twelve months will not be re-contracted. We are cutting the dead weight. The Instagram influencers, the daughters of your country club friends who use this firm as an aesthetic backdrop—they are gone.”
Arthur Vance nodded grimly. “That will eliminate twelve of our twenty-five agents.”
“Good,” I said. “Twelve fewer people using company gas cards for weekend trips to Charleston.”
“Second condition?” Julian asked.
“The brokerage transitions forty percent of its operations into distressed asset management and municipal valuation consulting,” I continued. “We will no longer rely exclusively on luxury residential commissions. Northline will direct all of its Carolina appraisal and debt-restructuring contracts through this office. You will do real work, for real institutional clients, under my direct supervision.”
Julian looked at Arthur. There was a flicker of resistance in his eyes—he was used to being the grand old man of SouthPark real estate, taking two-hour lunches at the palm restaurant and talking about golf handicaps.
“And the third condition?” Arthur asked quietly.
“A full forensic audit of every transaction Lavinia Carter touched over the last three years,” I said, leaning forward so they could see the bruises on my face clearly. “I want every expense report, every client entertainment voucher, and every forged signature on file. If Fairmont & Cole shielded her from previous compliance inquiries to keep her father’s friends happy, those documents will be handed over to the district attorney’s office by tomorrow morning. If I find a single page has been shredded, I will withdraw the financing, allow Wells Fargo to seize the furniture, and buy the assets at the liquidation auction on Friday for ten cents on the dollar.”
Julian’s pen dropped from his fingers.
He looked at Baxter, who was leaning against the window frame, arms crossed, staring back at him with the cold eyes of an executioner.
“She’s not negotiating, Julian,” Baxter said. “She’s giving you the terms of your surrender.”
Julian reached out a shaking hand, pulled the three-page corporate reorganization agreement across the table, and signed on the managing partner line.
Arthur Vance followed five seconds later.
I stood up, closed my portfolio, and tucked it under my arm.
May you like
“Congratulations, gentlemen,” I said. “You still have a company. Now clean out Lavinia’s office. I want her desk on the curb before the lunch crowd arrives.”
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