Chapter 4 - The Boardroom Panic
Back in Manhattan, Harrison Mercer was indeed losing his mind.
By 2:00 p.m., the sleek, minimalist penthouse had been transformed into an unofficial command center of quiet, controlled terror.
Two corporate security operatives from Vanguard Global—men in charcoal suits with earpieces and impassive expressions—stood silently by the entryway, reviewing digital floor plans and transit logs on encrypted tablets.
In the living room, Daniel Reeves paced back and forth across the herringbone floor, his polished Italian loafers clicking rhythmically against the wood.
“You absolute fool, Harrison!” Daniel hissed, lowering his voice so the security guards wouldn't catch the details. “How could you be so careless? How did she find the box? Where was it kept?”
“It was in the old cedar storage locker behind the winter coats,” Harrison snapped back, his face pale, his tailored shirt collar undone, his tie discarded on the floor. He looked every bit the apex predator who had just realized his cage had rusted through. “I thought it was empty! My father cleared out his personal effects years before he died!”
“People like William Mercer don't clear out their regrets, Harrison—they archive them!” Daniel shouted, running a hand through his thinning gray hair. “If Clare has that letter—if she has the original deed transfers from 1998—she doesn't just hold the leverage to blow up your marriage. She holds the legal right to invalidate the entire corporate restructuring of Mercer House Hospitality. She could strip you of every single hotel, every equity share, every dollar in your trust account!”
Harrison felt a sickening drop in his stomach. The wealth he wore like armor, the empire he had spent twelve brutal years expanding across North America and Europe, was built on a legal foundation of sand.
“Find her,” Harrison ordered, his voice dropping into a cold, dangerous snarl. “Use every private investigator, every traffic camera feed in the tri-state area, every credit card ping. I want to know where she went within the hour.”
“We’re already tracking her Metro-North and Amtrak manifests,” Daniel said grimly, tapping furiously on his tablet. “A ticket was purchased online at 4:15 a.m. using her personal debit card under a cash-back withdrawal at Penn Station. Destination: White River Junction, Vermont.”
Harrison froze.
“Vermont?”
“Woodstock,” Daniel corrected, his face draining of color. “Fourteen North Elm Street. Parker Pine Books.”
Harrison stared at his lawyer, the blood rushing in his ears. “Who owns that bookstore?”
Daniel stopped pacing. He looked at Harrison with a mixture of pity and absolute dread.
“Eleanor Parker,” Daniel said quietly. “Your father’s first wife. The woman your family legally erased from the public ledger thirty years ago when William decided to trade his moral compass for a multi-million-dollar real estate merger with your mother’s family.”
May you like
Harrison grabbed his coat from the bench.
“Get the Gulfstream warmed up at Teterboro,” Harrison commanded, striding toward the elevator. “We’re flying to Vermont.”
