Chapter 3 - Bloodline and Boardrooms
By sunrise, the story had already started leaking through exclusive circles. Though the Crown Meridian staff were sworn to nondisclosure agreements, Sabrina Vale’s hasty departure and Vincent Hale’s late-night shouting match couldn't be entirely swept under the rug. High-society Manhattan lived on rumors, and a crack in the pristine facade of the Hale dynasty was prime gossip.
At 8:30 AM, I sat in the executive conference suite of Cross Tower, dressed in an immaculate ivory power suit Julian’s team had delivered to my hotel suite earlier that morning. My dark hair was pulled back into a sleek, severe chignon. Gone was the gentle, subdued trophy wife who poured tea at charity galas.
My phone buzzed constantly on the mahogany table.
Fourteen missed calls from Eleanor Hale, Vincent’s venomous mother.
Twenty-seven missed calls from Vincent’s personal attorney.
One single voicemail from Vincent himself: “Claire, if you appear at City Hall today, I will destroy your father’s medical foundation. Come home before you ruin both of our lives.”
I deleted the voicemail without finishing the replay.
“He’s using your father’s foundation as leverage,” Julian noted, walking in with two steaming cups of black coffee. He set one before me and sat on the edge of the desk.
“My father died two years ago, Julian,” I said quietly, looking up. “The foundation is just a name on a building now. Vincent thinks he can still scare me with ghosts. He doesn't understand that when you take away everything a woman loves, you also take away everything she has left to fear.”
“The car is downstairs,” Julian told me, extending a hand to help me up. “The planning commission is already seating the board. Vincent arrived twenty minutes ago with a full entourage, looking like he owns the city.”
“Let him enjoy the illusion,” I replied, standing tall. “It’s the last hour he’ll ever have it.”
When our motorcade pulled up to the grand steps of City Hall, cameras flashed immediately. Reporters from the financial press swarmed the entrance. When Julian Cross stepped out and offered his hand to Claire Hale, the clicking of shutters sounded like gunfire.
Vincent was standing near the grand marble pillars, surrounded by city commissioners and his mother, Eleanor, who was draped in mink. When Eleanor saw me, her eyes flashed with venom.
“Claire!” Eleanor hissed loudly enough for the nearby councilmen to hear. “Have you completely lost your senses? Flaunting yourself with this... this boy in public? Do you have no shame?”
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I walked straight up the marble stairs, stopping two feet from Eleanor. I looked her in the eye—the woman who had belittled my origins and whispered poison into her son's ear for eight years.
“Shame, Eleanor, is standing next to your son while he cheats on his wife in hotel suites and steals her work,” I said clearly. Several journalists leaned in, recording every word. “I suggest you check your son’s briefcase. Because today, the Hale Corporation's reputation goes up in smoke.”
