Chapter 27 - The Ambush at the Gala
By 7:00 PM that evening, the snow in downtown Boston had been cleared into dirty, towering walls along the curbs, reflecting the flashbulbs of the press gathered outside the Fairmont Copley Plaza.
It was the annual New England Transportation and Logistics Summit—the very event where, one year ago, Arthur had reigned supreme as keynote speaker. Tonight, Julian Thorne was hosting an emergency press briefing in the grand ballroom, preparing to publicly announce his acquisition of Vance Logistics and the foreclosure of its subsidiary assets, including my company.
He didn't expect me to be there.
The ballroom was a sea of black-tie tuxedos, glittering diamond necklaces, and the clinking of crystal champagne flutes. Julian stood near the elevated podium, surrounded by a circle of predatory hedge-fund managers and corporate attorneys, basking in the warm glow of industry admiration. He looked devastatingly handsome, his dark eyes sparkling with triumphant arrogance as he gestured with a glass of vintage scotch.
The heavy mahogany doors at the back of the ballroom swung open.
The room didn't fall silent immediately, but the ripple of murmurs started from the back rows and spread like a seismic shock toward the front.
I walked down the red-carpeted center aisle.
I wasn't wearing an evening gown. I wore a tailored, charcoal-wool power suit, my hair pulled back into a severe, sleek ponytail, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor with the rhythmic, measured cadence of a firing squad. On my arm, I carried a slim leather portfolio.
Julian saw me first. His confident smile hitched for a fraction of a second, a flicker of raw, primal shock registering in his dark eyes before his practiced mask of corporate charm snapped back into place.
"Claire Vance," Julian said smoothly, stepping toward me with an outstretched hand, playing to the room full of reporters. "We were hoping you would join us. On behalf of the board, let me express our deepest condolences for the tragic incident at your residence this morning. Truly harrowing."
I didn't take his hand. I stopped three feet in front of him, letting the dead silence of three hundred people pool between us.
"Save the performance for the federal grand jury, Julian," I said, my voice cutting through the acoustic perfection of the ballroom like a razor through silk.
A camera flash went off to my left. Then another.
May you like
Julian’s eyes narrowed into slits, his voice dropping low, intended only for my ears. "You should have stayed in the hotel, Claire. You have no standing here. I hold the power of attorney. I hold the assets."
"You hold a forged assignment deed signed by an unhinged woman who just spent the afternoon being booked into the psychiatric ward of Framingham State Prison," I replied, pulling the leather portfolio open and extracting a single, laminated document. "And you hold forty-nine percent of an empty shell corporation whose primary assets were liquidated three hours ago."
