Chapter 5 - The Trap at the Gala
By Friday afternoon, the city belonged to us. The press ran front-page headlines detailing the “Decade-Long Romance Behind the Mercer-Vale Consolidation.” Society bloggers analyzed every glance Roman gave me on the courthouse steps where we filed the preliminary documents. Julian Vance had gone dark, his legal team withdrawing their emergency motion without a single public comment.
It was too easy.
I spent the evening in Roman’s private study, going through the ledger my father had tried to hide. Roman was at an emergency board briefing on the fortieth floor. The silence in the penthouse was peaceful until my phone vibrated against the desk.
An unknown number.
I swiped open the screen. It was an image.
My hand froze. The photograph showed a small, unassuming gray warehouse in the Calumet industrial district—the same warehouse my father’s shipping company had used for private storage. Below the photo was a text message:
“Roman Vale didn’t save your father from bankruptcy, Abigail. He engineered it. Check bay four before your wedding tomorrow, or sign away your father’s killer at noon.”
My stomach dropped into a bottomless void.
I tried to tell myself it was a ploy—a classic Vance desperation move designed to fracture our alliance before the stock consolidation took effect. But the ledger in front of me had three missing shipping manifests from that exact warehouse, signed during the final six months of my father’s life. And every payment routed through those manifests was underwritten by an account originating from Vale Capital.
I didn't call Roman. If this was a lie, I needed proof to throw in Vance’s face. If it was the truth...
I grabbed my coat, slipped into the service elevator, and took a private cab into the freezing December dark.
The Calumet warehouse was a tomb of rusted corrugated iron and howling wind. Snow drifted against the bay doors, but bay four had fresh tire tracks slicing through the slush. The pedestrian side door was unlocked.
I pushed it open, my pulse roaring in my ears. “Hello?”
The echo died against the high metal rafters. The room smelled of engine oil and damp concrete. In the center of the bay sat three heavy wooden crates bearing the Mercer crest.
I took a step forward. Behind me, the heavy iron door slammed shut with the force of an artillery shot.
The overhead floodlights hummed to life, blinding me for three agonizing seconds.
“I was hoping you’d come alone, Abigail,” Julian Vance said, stepping out from behind a rusted forklift. He was flanked by two men dressed in heavy dark parkas, their hands tucked suspiciously inside their pockets. “Conrad always swore you had too much pride for your own good. It seems he was right.”
“Where are the manifests, Vance?” I demanded, keeping my voice steady despite the ice creeping up my spine. “You brought me here to show me proof, or did you just need an empty room to threaten a woman?”
May you like
Vance smiled thinly. “Proof? My dear girl, Roman Vale didn’t kill your father. Conrad gave himself a heart attack trying to rob me blind. Vale just took advantage of the mess to clean out the competition. But you... you are the leverage that makes everything right.”
He took a step toward me. “Sign over the voting rights of your father’s shares to Vance Capital tonight, or you won't survive the night to walk down that aisle tomorrow.”
