Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Pen
By Thursday morning, the city of Chicago was captivated by the tragic narrative crafted by Vance Global’s high-priced public relations machinery. Every local news broadcast carried footage of Julian Vance speaking somberly on the steps of company headquarters, surrounded by microphones, expressing his profound grief over the "vicious home invasion" that had left his beloved wife fighting for her life.
"My family asks for privacy during this devastating time," Julian said, his eyes welling with rehearsed tears as he adjusted his black mourning tie. "While my wife remains in a medically induced coma, I have established a five-million-dollar reward for any information leading to the capture of the intruder who entered our home."
Standing three paces behind him, wearing a modest black designer dress and large dark glasses, was Selena Cole. She dabbed at her cheek with a handkerchief, playing the role of the devoted family friend and corporate spokesperson with Oscar-worthy precision.
Meanwhile, seventy miles north in a private, heavily guarded room at the Naval Hospital, I watched the entire press conference on a flat-screen monitor. My surgical incisions were healing slowly, monitored by a team of elite naval obstetricians who checked my babies’ heartbeats every two hours. The steady thump-thump-thump of their pulses sounded like war drums in my ears.
"He's good at performing," Marcus remarked, leaning against the wall with his arms folded as the broadcast ended. "He just filed an emergency petition with Cook County Probate Court to be appointed your legal conservator, citing your incapacitation. He wants power of attorney over your thirty percent stake in Vance Global."
"He needs my voting shares," I said, setting the remote down. My voice was getting stronger every day. "Our father-in-law's estate stipulated that the CEO position requires a minimum fifty-five percent controlling interest. Julian only owns thirty-five percent personally. Without my thirty percent proxy, the board of directors can call for an immediate vote of no confidence and remove him."
"And that vote is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock," Marcus added, pulling a certified document from his coat. "The board members are terrified of the plummeting stock price. Several institutional investors have already called for his temporary suspension. Julian is planning to walk into that boardroom tomorrow with a forged durable power of attorney signed by your 'conservator' to vote your shares in his favor."
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I looked down at my hands. The wedding band was gone, thrown into the hospital biohazard bin days ago. "Let him forge it, Marcus. Let him file the paperwork with the court clerk. Let him stand in front of the board and commit felony fraud on top of attempted murder. When do the federal warrants unseal?"
"Tomorrow at two-fifty-five," Marcus smiled, a dark, lethal grin touching his lips. "Five minutes before he calls the meeting to order."
