Chapter Twenty-one
Vane
I can smell their fear. It smells like stale coffee and desperation.
They are gathered in the Grand Boardroom—twelve men and two women who think they own a piece of me because they sit on a committee. They are staring at Sloane as she walks in behind me. They are looking for the "distraction." They are looking for the crack in the glass.
"Vane," Arthur Sterling, my uncle and the chairman of the board, stands up. He looks like a withered version of me, his power fading as mine grows. "The Thorne deal was the cornerstone of our autumn portfolio. We lost four percent of our market cap in three hours. We need an explanation that isn't 'I didn't feel like it.'"
I walk to the head of the table and sit. I don't offer them a greeting. I don't offer them an apology.
"The Thorne deal was a bloated corpse," I say, leaning back and steepling my fingers. "I walked away because the deeper I looked, the more I saw the rot. Marcus Thorne is a gambler, not a businessman. I saved us from a hundred-million-dollar write-down".
"That's not what the data says," Arthur snaps. He turns his predatory gaze toward Sloane. "Ms. Vance. You were the lead on the due diligence. You prepared the briefing. Why did your report change between Friday night and Sunday morning?"
I watch Sloane. This is the moment. This is the breach.
She stands at the foot of the table, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She looks every bit the Columbia-educated professional. But I can see the slight shadow under her eyes. I can see the way she's holding her breath.
"The data didn't change, Mr. Sterling," Sloane says, her voice as clear and cold as a bell. "The interpretation did. Upon further review of the offshore liabilities, I advised Mr. Sterling that the risk outweighed the reward. My recommendation was to withdraw immediately".
The room goes silent. She's lying for me. She's taking the hit for a deal she knows was perfect, all to cover for the fact that I spent the weekend watching her sleep.
"You advised a withdrawal?" Arthur sneers. "A junior assistant dictated the strategy of a multi-billion-dollar firm?"
"She isn't a junior assistant," I interject, my voice dropping to a dangerous, low frequency. "She is my executive proxy. Her word is my word. If you have a problem with her 'interpretation,' you have a problem with mine".
I stand up, my shadow falling across the length of the table.
"This meeting is over. We're moving on to the Perth acquisition. If any of you feels the need to audit my decisions again, I suggest you check your own severance clauses first".
I walk out, not waiting for a response. Sloane follows. We make it to my private office before she speaks.