CHAPTER 10: THE VAULTER QUESTION — Part 2
Logan's office was exactly as I remembered it from the show. Wood-paneled walls, massive desk, view of Manhattan that cost more than most people's houses. Afternoon light cut through the windows, harsh and direct.
Logan sat behind the desk. Not diminished. Not weak. Whatever recovery he'd done in the last few weeks had rebuilt most of what the stroke had taken. The tremor in his left hand was barely visible.
He didn't look up when I entered.
"Close the door," he said.
I closed it. Stood there. Waited.
He finished whatever he was reading. Set it aside. Finally looked at me.
"Sit."
I sat.
Silence. The kind Logan used as a weapon. Testing to see if I'd fill it with nervous chatter.
I didn't.
After a long moment, he leaned back in his chair. "So. Vaulter."
"Yeah."
"You questioned the numbers. In front of the board. In front of Kendall."
"I did."
"Why?"
I met his eyes. "Because the subscriber growth curve was too smooth. Real growth has variance. Their numbers looked manufactured."
"You an expert in digital media now?"
"No. But I know what fake data looks like." I paused. "And I know what it costs us if Kendall buys a company based on bad information and it tanks in six months."
Logan's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Interest? Approval?
"Frank ordered independent analysis," he said. "Deloitte's looking at it now."
"Good."
"If you're wrong, you embarrassed your brother and yourself for nothing."
"I'm not wrong."
The confidence in my voice surprised both of us. Logan's eyebrows rose slightly.
"Sure of yourself."
"Sure of the numbers." I shifted forward slightly. "Look, I'm not trying to undermine Kendall. I voted for him. I want him to succeed. But buying Vaulter at their asking price would've been a disaster."
"And if the analysis proves you right?"
"Then Kendall dodged a bullet. And the board knows I can spot problems before they become catastrophes."
Logan nodded slowly. "And if it proves you wrong?"
I shrugged. "Then I learn to keep my mouth shut about things I don't fully understand."
A grunt. Almost approval.
"You've been watching," Logan said. "Like I asked. What've you seen?"
Here was the test. What I reported now would define how he saw me.
"Frank's solid. Running things efficiently behind the scenes, letting Kendall take credit. Smart play—keeps the interim structure stable without threatening Kendall's authority."
"And Kendall?"
I chose my words carefully. "Working hard. Making conservative decisions. The board respects the effort. But he's trying too hard to prove himself. They can smell it."
"Weakness."
"Insecurity," I corrected. "Different thing. Weakness is inability. Insecurity is fear of inability. One can be fixed."
Logan studied me. I felt the weight of his attention, assessing, calculating.
"You've changed," he said finally.
My stomach tightened. Careful. Very careful.
"How so?"
"Less jokes. More thinking." He tapped his desk. "The stroke. Being there. Did something to you."
I held his gaze. "Watching you nearly die tends to focus the mind."
Truth and lie mixed together. The stroke had changed everything—just not in the way he thought.
"Keep watching," Logan said. "Keep reporting. And Roman—" He leaned forward. "If you're right about Vaulter, don't be an asshole about it. Kendall's fragile right now. Rubbing his face in it helps no one."
"Understood."
"Good. Now fuck off. I have work."
I stood. Got halfway to the door before he spoke again.
"You did good. At the birthday. Staying calm. Making the right calls." His voice was gruff, uncomfortable with praise. "I remember that."
I turned back. He was already looking at his papers again, the moment of vulnerability closed.
"Thanks," I said quietly.
I left.
I made it to my office before Kendall found me.
The door opened without knocking. He stepped inside, closed it behind him. His face was controlled fury.
"What the fuck was that?" he demanded.
I set my phone down. "You're going to have to be more specific."
"The meeting. The questions. Making me look incompetent in front of the board."
I leaned back in my chair. Kept my voice level. "I asked if anyone had verified the subscriber numbers. That's not making you look incompetent. That's due diligence."
"You undermined me."
"I questioned data that looked suspicious. If the data's good, verification proves it. If it's bad, we don't waste three billion dollars."
He stepped closer. Hands clenched at his sides. "You voted for me. You said you supported me. This isn't support."
"This is exactly support." I stood, matched his height. "Support isn't staying quiet while you make a mistake that Dad will use against you for the next decade. Support is asking hard questions before they become disasters."
"I vetted this deal. I worked on it for weeks—"
"And you trusted their numbers without verification. That's not your fault—they're good at making the numbers look clean. But buying based on inflated data would've been your fault."
We stared at each other. Brothers. The word felt wrong in my mouth—I wasn't really his brother, just wearing his brother's skin—but the dynamic was real enough.
I reached out. Put my hand on his shoulder. Felt the Empathy Engine flare.
Scared. So scared. What if he's right? What if I almost fucked up? What if Dad finds out? What if they're all seeing it—seeing I'm not ready—
Beneath the anger, pure fear. Kendall's entire identity wrapped up in being the heir, the chosen one, the only one who could do this. And I'd just suggested he couldn't spot bad data.
I softened my voice. "Look. I want you to succeed. I mean that. But if this deal's bad and you push it through, Dad will destroy you when he gets back. I'm trying to protect you."
Half-true. I did want Kendall to survive this. But I also needed to build my own credibility, position myself as the one who could see problems coming.
Kendall's jaw worked. The anger wavered. Not gone, but uncertain now.
"The analysis," he said finally. "If it comes back clean—"
"Then I'll apologize publicly and admit I was wrong." I met his eyes. "But if I'm right, you need to kill the deal. No renegotiation, no restructuring. Walk away."
"Dad would never walk away from a deal."
"Dad's made plenty of bad deals. He just doesn't talk about them." I removed my hand from his shoulder. "Be smarter than him."
Kendall laughed. Sharp, bitter. "Yeah. Sure. Just be smarter than Logan Roy. Easy."
He turned to go. Paused at the door.
"I still think you're a backstabbing asshole," he said without looking back.
"Fair enough."
He left.
I sat down heavily. Pulled out my phone. Texted Gerri: Talked to both of them. Still employed.
Her response came fast: Barely counts as success. The analysis will take two weeks.
Two weeks of walking on eggshells. Two weeks of Kendall's cold shoulder. Two weeks of waiting to see if I'd built credibility or destroyed my relationship with my brother.
I looked out my office window. Manhattan spread below, indifferent to the small wars fought in corporate towers.
My phone buzzed again. Different number. Frank.
Good question in the meeting. Brave or stupid—we'll see which.
I smiled despite myself.
At least someone appreciated due diligence.
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