Chapter 3 - The Opening Bell
At 5:45 a.m. Eastern Time, Harrison’s alarm went off with its cheery digital chirp.
He rolled out of the king-sized bed, slipped into a silk bathrobe, and walked down the spiral stairs to the kitchen. The kitchen was still littered with empty wine bottles and leftover catering boxes from the party, but Harrison didn't care. He brewed a cup of espresso, grabbed his iPad from the island, and sat down on the leather barstool.
He opened Bloomberg News to check the pre-market futures.
The top headline banner, splashed across the screen in bold, pulsing red, stopped his hand mid-air:
WALL STREET SHOCKED: SHADOW BIOTECH TITAN NEXACORE THERAPEUTICS ANNOUNCES HISTORIC $12.4B IPO UNDER RECLUSIVE HEIRESS CAROLINE VANCE.
Harrison froze. His espresso cup remained suspended an inch above the marble counter.
"Caroline Vance?" he muttered aloud, his brows furrowing in irritated confusion. "What kind of lazy journalist gets names mixed up? Vance is a common name in New York..."
He tapped the article.
The high-resolution photograph embedded beneath the headline made the breath violently leave his lungs.
It wasn't a stock image of a corporate skyscraper. It was a full-length portrait taken outside the private family terminal in Seattle. I stood on the tarmac in an exquisite, bespoke ivory wool coat and black trousers, my dark hair falling over my shoulders in elegant waves. In my right hand, held casually against my leather portfolio, was the black fountain pen—the pen Harrison had mocked as a waste of money.
The caption beneath the photo read:
“Reclusive industrialist Caroline Vance, sole heir to the eighty-year-old Vance Family Trust and founding Chairwoman of NexaCore Therapeutics, makes her public debut ahead of today's historic NYSE listing. Miss Vance, whose family privately controls over forty commercial skyscrapers across North America, has operated through blind corporate vehicles for over a decade.”
Harrison’s vision swam. The kitchen began to spin in slow, sickening circles.
Sole heir to the Vance Family Trust?
Forty commercial skyscrapers?
Twelve point four billion dollars?
"No," Harrison whispered, his voice trembling so hard the word was barely audible. "No, this is impossible. This is a clerical error. Caroline worked as a senior compliance analyst at an insurance fund. She drove a ten-year-old Honda Civic until I bought the Tesla!"
His personal cell phone began ringing frantically.
It was Richard Sterling, the senior founding partner and CEO of Sterling & Croft. Harrison swiped the screen with a sweaty thumb, pressing it to his ear. "Richard! Good morning, sir, I was just reviewing the pre-market—"
"Harrison, what the living hell did you do?" Richard roared through the receiver. The older man was breathing so hard he sounded like he was having an active cardiac arrest.
"Sir? What do you mean?"
"We just received an emergency certified courier notice from Vance Property Management LLC at five-fifteen this morning!" Richard shouted. "They have terminated our exclusive commercial leasing contract across their entire Manhattan portfolio, effective immediately! All forty properties! Furthermore, they have issued a notice of non-renewal on our corporate headquarters lease at the Vance Financial Tower! We have thirty days to vacate four floors of prime Wall Street real estate!"
Harrison’s knees buckled. He collapsed against the kitchen island, sending his espresso cup crashing to the floor. The dark coffee splattered across his bare feet and the pristine oak floorboards. "Richard... wait. Why? We’ve performed above quota for three consecutive years! Why would they pull the portfolio?"
"Because of a clause in the termination addendum, Harrison!" Richard screamed, his voice cracking into pure, unadulterated fury. "The letter was personally signed by Caroline Vance, the ultimate beneficial owner of the entire trust! And attached to the eviction notice was a copy of your signed divorce settlement from yesterday afternoon, along with a note from her counsel stating that Vance Holdings will no longer maintain commercial relations with any firm employing an individual who engaged in active domestic fraud and marital waste against its principal!"
"Domestic fraud?" Harrison choked out, his chest tightening as if a steel band were crushing his ribs.
"Did you cheat on your wife with an intern, Harrison?" Richard demanded, the question landing like a sledgehammer. "Did you bring that blonde receptionist to our corporate gala while your wife was quietly owning the building our firm operates out of?"
"Richard, please, listen to me—"
"You're fired, Harrison!" Richard cut him off with brutal finality. "Pack your desk before noon! If your face is seen in our lobby after lunch, building security will have you arrested for criminal trespass! And our legal team is already drafting a thirty-million-dollar civil suit against you personally for gross negligence and breach of fiduciary duty leading to the destruction of our primary revenue stream!"
The call disconnected with a sharp, violent tone.
Harrison stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, his phone shaking in his numb hand.
Upstairs, the door to the master bedroom clicked open. Khloe came wandering down the grand staircase in a silk robe, rubbing her eyes, carrying an empty glass.
May you like
"Harry, sweetie?" Khloe yawned, oblivious to the world. "Who was that shouting on the phone? Did the decorator call about the wine lounge?"
Harrison turned around slowly. His face was entirely devoid of color, his skin an ashen, mottled gray, his eyes wide and hollow like those of a man who had just watched his entire existence get vaporized by an atomic blast.
