Chapter 7: Corporate Panic
Within twenty minutes, the grand ballroom had emptied of its glittering guests, the high-society gala transformed into an echoing, sterile cavern of discarded champagne flutes and crushed corsages. The press gallery, however, had multiplied. Camera crews clustered near the glass double doors like starlings before a storm, their lenses aimed squarely at the stage where I sat on a velvet-upholstered bench, swinging my legs slightly as I waited.
My grandfather, Richard Vance, stood near the mahogany-paneled side entrance, speaking in low, clipped tones with our legal counsel, Marcus Vance. Richard's face was a mask of granite, though I could see the faint, proud twitch at the corner of his mouth whenever he glanced over at me. For three years, Victoria Sterling and her syndicate had systematically pushed our family out of the foundation's governance, burying us under manufactured scandals and fraudulent board votes. Tonight, the ledger had finally balanced.
"The stock exchange is already reacting," Marcus muttered, stepping over to Richard with a tablet glowing in his palm. "Sterling Global Logistics shares dropped twelve percent in after-hours trading the moment the livestream hit the wire. Their board members are resigning via email faster than their PR team can draft press releases."
Richard nodded slowly, his gaze drifting toward the far corner of the ballroom where Victoria sat slumped in a gilt-wood chair. Two private attorneys she had retained at exorbitant retainers were hovering over her, their expressions grim as they whispered urgent questions about signature verification and offshore accounts. Victoria wouldn't look at anyone. She stared fixedly at a spot on the floor, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid jerks.
"She's finished," Richard said quietly, more to himself than to Marcus. "Pride always writes checks the balance sheet can't cash."
Marcus glanced over at me, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. "And Eleanor? How is she holding up?"
"Ask me yourself, Uncle Marcus," I said, hopping down from the bench with a soft rustle of my yellow floral dress. I walked over to them, holding the modern black smartphone securely in my left hand. The screen was dark now, the battery saver engaged, but the weight of it felt substantial. It wasn't just a phone anymore; it was an anchor that had hauled a sunken ship up into the harsh light of day.
"You're remarkably calm for an eight-year-old who just dismantled a billion-dollar empire," Marcus remarked, a faint, dry smile touching his lips.
"Being calm is much more efficient than yelling," I replied simply, echoing the lesson my grandfather had repeated every time Victoria tried to intimidate us in her office. "Yelling just wastes oxygen that you need for thinking."
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Richard reached out, placing a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder. His fingers were slightly calloused from decades of working with machinery and old paper documents, a reminder of the foundation's working-class roots before Victoria turned it into a temple of high-society pretense.
"We aren't done yet, Ellie," my grandfather said softly, looking down at me with deep affection. "The gala is over, but the real work starts tomorrow morning when the auditors walk through those front doors."
