Chapter Twenty-Three
Vane
The monitors in my private sanctum hum with a low, electric heat.
I am sitting in total darkness, save for the blue glow of the security matrix. On screen four, the parking garage of Sterling-Vance is rendered in high-definition monochrome. It is a cavern of concrete and shadows, a place where the polished image of the firm goes to die.
I see her.
Sloane is walking toward her sedan, her stride a fraction slower than it was this morning. The "Audit" of the last seventy-two hours is etched into the line of her shoulders. She looks exhausted, fragile, and utterly magnificent.
Then, a black sedan—not mine—pulls across her path, cutting her off.
I lean forward, my fingers hovering over the console. I recognize the car. It's Arthur's. My uncle, the man who thinks a bloodline is a substitute for a brain. I watch him step out of the vehicle, his movements stiff and arrogant. He approaches Sloane with the practiced smile of a man about to offer a poisoned apple.
I reach for the audio override. The garage is outfitted with parabolic microphones; I hear the scuff of Arthur's Italian loafers on the concrete as clearly as if he were standing next to me.
"Ms. Vance," Arthur's voice crackles through the speakers. "A long day for a woman who has suddenly become the most talked-about person on Wall Street."
Sloane stops. She doesn't flinch. She stands her ground like a soldier facing a firing squad. "Mr. Sterling. I was under the impression the board meeting had concluded."
"The formal one, perhaps," Arthur says, stepping into her personal space. "But we both know the real decisions happen in the margins. You lied for him today, Sloane. You threw your reputation on the fire to protect my nephew's erratic behavior. Why?"
I watch her face on the screen. She is a masterpiece of unreadability. "I provided my professional assessment, sir. Nothing more."
"Don't play the loyal dog with me," Arthur sneers, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I know about the clinic in the hills. I know about the costs of your mother's specialized care. It's a heavy burden for a single woman on a fixed salary."
On the monitor, I see Sloane's hand tighten on the strap of her laptop bag. A tell. A beautiful, human tell.
"I have a proposal," Arthur continues. "Vane is volatile. He's losing his grip. When he falls—and he will fall—he will take you down with him as his accomplice. But if you were to provide the board with a... detailed account of his activities in the Hamptons, the 'breaches' of conduct he's undoubtedly committed..."
He pauses, leaning in closer. "I will personally guarantee the endowment for your mother's care. In perpetuity. Not as a monthly allowance from Vane, but as a lump sum. You would never have to step foot in this building again. You would be free, Sloane. Truly free."
I hold my breath. My heart, that cold, mechanical muscle, hitches in my chest. This is the ultimate audit. I have given her everything she needs to destroy me. I have shown her my weakness. I have let her see the man behind the machine.
And now, I am going to watch her sell me.