Chapter 8: Confronting the Board
The boardroom at Vance Architecture was a shrine to corporate excess—floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the glittering skyline, a massive mahogany conference table, and leather chairs that cost more than a working-class car. Yet today, the room felt like a freezing tomb. Seven members of the board sat in stiff silence, their eyes darting nervously between me and the empty leather seat at the head of the table where Victoria usually sat.
I stood at the far end of the room, my hands resting flat on the mahogany surface. David stood beside me, plugging a secure drive into the main multimedia console. Behind us, Marcus waited by the door, acting as silent security against any unexpected interruptions.
"This meeting is irregular, Arthur," muttered Harrison, the senior board member whose loyalty to Michael Cole was an open secret in the financial district. "Without Mrs. Vance present to vote her shares, any motion regarding executive restructuring is legally vulnerable."
"Mrs. Vance is currently indisposed," I said, my voice cutting through the murmurs of the room like a scalpel. "She is answering criminal sub-poenas regarding corporate fraud, embezzlement, and conspiracy with an external investor."
The double doors at the back of the boardroom suddenly swung open. Michael Cole strode into the room, flanked by two corporate attorneys in identical charcoal suits. He wore his usual bespoke navy blazer, his silver-streaked hair perfectly combed, radiating the untouchable arrogance of a man who believed his money insulated him from human consequence.
"This is an absurd circus," Cole announced smoothly, stopping midway down the table with a patronizing smirk. "Arthur, you're letting personal marital grief cloud your judgment. Hand over the project files, check yourself into a wellness clinic, and perhaps the board won't sue you into bankruptcy for corporate sabotage."
I didn't blink. I didn't raise my voice. I simply pressed play on the console remote.
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Instantly, the massive wall-mounted display flickered to life. It didn't show architectural blueprints or financial spreadsheets. It displayed high-resolution security stills from the penthouse server logs: Michael Cole unlocking the private residential elevator with an unauthorized master code at two in the morning, carrying legal documents bearing my signature, while my daughter cowered in the background.
The silence in the room became absolute. Harrison turned his head away in disgust. The color drained entirely from Cole's face, his smooth facade cracking instantly as he realized the full trap had sprung.
