Chapter 6 - The Architect of the Fall
The offices of Vance & Company Logistics—the corporate parent had no historical connection to Richard, though he routinely dropped the firm’s name at the local golf range as if his grandfather had founded it—occupied three brick warehouses on the industrial flats of Long Island City.
On Tuesday morning, the air inside the executive suite was thick with the scent of cheap victory.
Richard Vance sat behind the faux-walnut desk on the second floor, his feet propped up on the blotter, a twenty-dollar cigar unlit between his yellowed teeth.
Before him lay a document bearing the embossed gold seal of Sterling & Cross Holdings.
"Regional Managing Director of Maritime Freight," Richard read aloud, savoring every syllable like a child sucking on an unearned jawbreaker. "Base salary: two hundred and forty thousand. Annual performance dividend: one hundred and fifty thousand. Company vehicle allowance: eighteen hundred a month."
Beside him, Vanessa was practically vibrating with excitement. She was wearing a new red leather skirt, her manicured nails clicking frantically against her phone screen as she browsed the real estate listings for the Dix Hills gated community.
"Look at this one, babe," Vanessa purred, shoving the screen under his nose. "In-ground pool, four-car garage, and the master suite has a steam shower with twelve jets. The broker says the seller will accept a cash deposit of forty thousand to hold it until the corporate bonus clears."
"Tell him we'll give him fifty," Richard sneered, tossing his cigar onto the desk. "I told you, didn't I? I told you that bitch was holding me back. The second I put her face in that cake, my whole life opened up. The partners from Manhattan saw that. They saw a man who takes control of his house."
"Has she called?" Vanessa asked, her voice dropping into a small, feline squint.
"Who? Maya?" Richard laughed, reaching into his drawer for the company credit card the new regional director’s package had provided. "She’s probably sleeping on Clara’s grease rags behind the diner. The police called me yesterday—she hasn't even tried to cash her final paycheck. She knows if she shows her face in town, I’ll have her picked up for the twelve hundred she stole from my dresser."
The door to the office swung open without a knock.
Thomas Wright stepped across the threshold, followed by two men in dark suits carrying heavy leather catalog cases.
Richard scrambled to take his feet off the desk, his face instantly arranging itself into that wide, toothy, sycophantic grin he reserved for the Park Avenue money.
"Mr. Wright! Sir! We were just reviewing the preliminary manifest for the Brooklyn docks. I have some ideas about streamlining the night-shift loading crews—"
"The night shift is irrelevant, Mr. Vance," Thomas said, remaining standing near the door. He did not offer his hand. His eyes swept over Vanessa’s red skirt with the clinical detachment of a butcher inspecting a side of beef. "The acquisition of the Atlantic Coastal Line was finalized at eight o'clock this morning."
"Fantastic news!" Richard beamed, clapping his hands together. "A great day for the firm! We're ready to execute the new contracts whenever you are."
"The contracts have already been executed," Thomas replied. He stepped aside, allowing the two men behind him to place three heavy stacks of vellum-bound ledgers onto the desk. "Under the terms of the acquisition, the Sterling Trust has assumed one hundred percent of the outstanding liabilities of Vance Logistics."
"Including the executive bonus pool?" Vanessa chimed in, offering her most dazzling, practiced smile.
Thomas looked at her for three seconds. "Especially the executive pool, Miss Vaughn."
He pulled a single, cream-colored invitation from his interior pocket and laid it on top of the ledgers.
It was engraved on four-hundred-pound cotton rag, bordered in black and silver:
THE STERLING MARITIME TRUST
Requests the presence of the Senior Logistics Directorate
At the Annual Gala of the Atlantic Line
Thursday, the Twenty-Eighth of August, at Eight O’Clock
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel, New York
To Welcome the Majority Shareholder
Richard picked up the card, his thick fingers leaving a faint grease smudge on the heavy paper.
"The Plaza?" Richard breathed, his eyes bulging. "The Grand Ballroom? They... they want me at the high table?"
"The principal requested your presence personally, Mr. Vance," Thomas said, his tone entirely devoid of inflection. "She was quite specific. She noted that your... administrative style... was uniquely deserving of recognition in front of the entire eastern seaboard board of governors."
Vanessa let out a small shriek of delight, throwing her arms around Richard’s neck. "Oh my god, Richard! We’re going to the Plaza! I have to go to Bergdorf’s! I need five thousand dollars right now for a gown!"
"Take the company card, baby," Richard roared, his face glowing with the supreme, incandescent vanity of an idiot who believes the sun has risen specifically to warm his back. "Take ten! We’re sitting with the billionaires on Thursday!"
May you like
Thomas Wright watched them for one second longer.
"Black tie, Mr. Vance," Thomas said softly, turning toward the corridor. "And please. Do not be late. The Lady Maya is remarkably punctual."
