Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Study
Richard didn’t go straight to the front porch. Instead, he ducked into his private ground-floor study, slamming the heavy mahogany door behind him to drown out the muffled sounds of the jazz band on the terrace.
He walked over to his massive desk—a custom piece carved from a single slab of American walnut—and pulled up his laptop.
His head of operations, David Chen, had compiled the final background files on the Summit Crest executive committee three days ago. Richard had skimmed through Anthony Mercer’s profile, familiarizing himself with Mercer’s track record, his net worth, his preferred golf courses, and his philanthropic donations. But there had been three other names attached to the investment memorandum—silent partners and founding trustees of the Summit Crest Master Trust.
Richard typed his password with rapid, aggressive strokes.
He opened the encrypted PDF labeled Summit Crest Governance & Capital Allocation Structure.
He scrolled past the corporate registration documents in Delaware, past the tier-one institutional banking disclosures, straight down to the beneficial ownership chart.
At the very top of the trust structure, above Anthony Mercer’s name, sat an entity called The Carter-Vance Foundation and Trust.
Richard frowned, squinting at the small text on the screen. Carter.
He opened a search tab and typed: Helen Carter Summit Crest.
Nothing came up. No corporate headshots, no LinkedIn profile, no mentions in the Wall Street Journal or the Dallas Business Journal.
He leaned back, exhaling a sharp breath of relief. “Of course not,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his temples. “She’s nobody. Probably an unhinged activist or a disgruntled former tenant from one of the apartment complexes trying to make a scene.”
The study door clicked open. Patricia slipped inside, her silk skirt rustling softly against the dark oriental rug. She locked the door behind her and leaned against it, her manicured fingers trembling slightly.
“Richard, what are you doing in here?” she whispered, her voice laced with panic. “The mayor just arrived with two council members. Everyone is asking why you disappeared after Leonard Vance’s outburst.”
“I’m handling something, Patricia,” Richard snapped, staring at the screen.
“You’re obsessing over that woman!” Patricia hissed, walking over to the desk. “Why do you care so much? Marcus escorted her out. The party is moving on. If you keep hiding in your study, people are going to think the rumors about our liquidity crisis are true!”
Richard stood up, towering over his wife. “That woman is still sitting on our driveway. Right by the fountain.”
Patricia stared at him, bewildered. “Then tell the gate guards to drag her past the property line! Why are you letting a stranger rattle you like this?”
Richard looked at his wife—the woman he had married twenty years ago when his company was just beginning to turn its first major profit. Patricia came from Dallas old money. Her father had been an oil wildcatter who lost his fortune in the eighties, but she had retained the social connections, the poise, and the desperate, burning need to maintain appearances at all costs. Over twenty years, they had become partners in ambition, but strangers in every way that truly mattered.
“She looked at me,” Richard said, his voice dropping to a low, unsettling rasp.
“What?”
“When I told her she didn’t belong here, she didn’t look embarrassed. She looked at me the way my mother used to look at me when I lied about stealing money from her purse to buy a pair of name-brand sneakers.”
Patricia rolled her eyes, throwing her hands in the air. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Richard! Your mother died five years ago! Stop dragging your childhood into our boardroom! We have forty-eight hours to save this company from foreclosure! If Anthony Mercer walks in that door and sees you having an emotional breakdown over a woman in a fifty-dollar dress, we are ruined!”
Richard stared at Patricia. The cruelty in her voice wasn't new, but tonight, under the harsh light of the desk lamp, it felt stark. Ugly.
Before he could answer, his private phone on the desk buzzed violently.
It was a text from Marcus Dean at the security command desk.
Sir, a black Maybach just cleared the main security gate. Anthony Mercer is here.
May you like
Richard’s heart leaped into his throat. All thoughts of Helen Carter, his mother, and his wounded pride evaporated in an instant.
“He’s here,” Richard said, his voice instantly snapping back into its polished, commanding register. He buttoned his tuxedo jacket and adjusted his cuffs in the reflection of the dark windowpane. “Smooth your hair, Patricia. Put your smile on. We are about to close the biggest deal of our lives.”
