Chapter 4: The Cancellation Notice
The next morning, the view from the forty-second floor of the Sterling Crest Tower was crystal clear.
I sat at my executive desk, sipping black coffee, watching the morning sunlight catch the surface of Lake Michigan. My personal cell phone had been turned off since I left Bellamy House. I didn't need to turn it on to know what was happening; my corporate dashboard was telling me the entire story.
My assistant, Marcus, walked into my office carrying a leather tablet folder. He was a sharp, impeccably dressed former investment banker who had managed my father's account for three years without ever slipping up.
"Good morning, Ms. Vance," Marcus said, placing the daily briefing on my desk. "I trust the anniversary dinner was memorable?"
"It was illuminating, Marcus," I replied, signing a wire authorization. "What's the status on the Hawaiian bookings?"
"All eight first-class airline reservations have been successfully voided. The airline refunded eighty-five percent of the tariff back into our corporate treasury," Marcus reported smoothly. "The Four Seasons Maui also confirmed the release of the three oceanfront suites. Ironically, there was a waitlist—they were rebooked by a tech executive within ten minutes."
"And my family?"
Marcus allowed a rare, dry smirk to touch his face. "Arthur Vance has called my direct office line fourteen times since 8:00 AM. Julian Vance attempted to use his company credit card to rebook the flights himself at standard retail pricing—approximately twelve thousand dollars per ticket."
"And?"
"The card declined," Marcus said. "When we terminated the corporate credit enhancement facility at midnight, Vance Construction's primary business accounts reverted to their actual cash balance. Which, as of this morning, is overdrawn by fourteen thousand dollars."
I leaned back in my chair, watching a ferry cut across the blue water below.
For fifteen years, Julian had leased BMWs, Sienna had thrown lavish country-club birthday parties for her children, and my parents had toasted their own success—all while floating on a river of money they assumed my father was earning.
"They're downstairs, aren't they?" I asked.
May you like
Marcus nodded. "Arthur, Julian, and your mother are currently in the ground-floor reception lobby. Security asked if you want them escorted off the premises."
"No," I said, closing my folder. "Put them in Boardroom B. Let them wait twenty minutes. Then bring them up."
