Chapter 6 - Freezing the Assets
Grant didn't move. He stood against the back wall, staring at me as if looking at an executioner who had already pulled the lever.
"As of eight-fifteen this morning," I said, glancing at the diamond Cartier watch on my wrist, "your executive privileges have been terminated. Your corporate credit cards have been canceled. The black cards in your wallet right now? Pieces of useless plastic."
Grant reached instinctively toward his inner breast pocket, his fingers twitching.
"The penthouse on Fifth Avenue is owned by the Vance Family Trust," I continued methodically. "The locks were changed at seven o'clock. Your personal effects—the clothes you purchased with your own documented salary prior to the Aegis embezzlement—have been packed into six cardboard boxes. They are currently sitting on the sidewalk outside the service entrance."
"Claire, no..." Grant choked out, tears of genuine panic welling in his eyes. "You can't leave me with nothing. My reputation! My contacts!"
"Your contacts?" Arthur Sterling spoke up, his voice dripping with venom. "Grant, my boy, I personally called the managing partners at Goldman, Morgan Stanley, and Blackstone twenty minutes before you arrived. By noon, there isn't a firm on this continent that will allow you past the lobby metal detectors."
"And what about my car?" Grant pleaded, clutching at the most ridiculous, superficial straws as his reality disintegrated. "The Aston Martin in the garage downstairs—"
"Registered to the Vance Fleet Management LLC," Daniel Reeves interjected briskly. "The keys were surrendered by your driver an hour ago. He has already been reassigned to Mrs. Vance's personal security detail. In fact, he was quite eager to accept the reassignment once he was informed of the overtime bonus."
Sabrina dropped back into her metal chair, burying her face in her hands and sobbing hysterically. Her grand fantasy of high society, private jets, and penthouses had collapsed into a pile of court subpoenas and public disgrace in less than forty-five minutes.
I stood up from the head of the table.
The entire board stood with me in unison—men of immense wealth and power, bowing to the undisputed sovereign of the room.
I smoothed the front of my cream Chanel blazer and walked around the long marble table, my heels clicking with a rhythmic, measured cadence that echoed like a death knell. I stopped two feet in front of Grant. He looked up at me from his metal chair, his face ruined, his eyes wide and hollow.
"Yesterday," I whispered, leaning in slightly so only he could hear the intimate cruelty of my words, "you told me that my place was on a commercial flight back to New York. You told me to stay in the cheap seats."
I reached into my pocket, pulled out two crumpled yellow slips of paper, and dropped them into his lap.
They were two one-way subway passes for the MTA transit system.
May you like
"There is your transportation, Grant," I said softly. "Security will see you to the street. Don't look back. You aren't worthy of the dust on this floor."
***
