Chapter 3 - The Aftermath in the Boardroom
By midnight, the glittering ballroom had emptied of guests, leaving behind crushed champagne flutes, wilted centerpieces, and a suffocating aura of scandal.
Upstairs on the forty-fifth floor of Carter-Vance Tower, inside Robert’s private executive boardroom, the atmosphere was even colder. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline, glittering indifferently in the dark.
Oliver sat at the far end of the massive mahogany conference table, still wearing his olive-green jacket. He hadn't touched the glass of water a terrified corporate secretary had placed before him. Across the table sat Robert, looking ten years older than he had twenty-four hours ago, his charcoal suit jacket discarded, his tie loosened.
Standing near the double doors was Victoria’s legal counsel, a slick corporate attorney named Marcus Vance—no relation, though he shared the family’s predatory instincts.
“Mr. Vance, this is a legal catastrophe,” Marcus said, adjusting his glasses nervously. “If the press gets hold of the probate files and the DNA verification—which, let’s be honest, is undeniable—your stock will plummet by Monday morning. The board will call an emergency vote to strip you of your chairmanship.”
“Let them,” Robert said flatly, not taking his eyes off Oliver.
“Are you out of your mind?” Marcus raised his voice, stepping forward. “Victoria has already filed for a legal separation and initiated asset freezing proceedings through her family’s trust. She’s going to sue for fifty percent of everything!”
“Let her sue,” Robert repeated, his voice devoid of fear. He looked at Oliver. “Everything I built... every building, every stock share, every account—was built on the guilt of walking away from your mother. It belongs to her son. All of it.”
Oliver finally looked up, his grey eyes narrowing. “I don't want your blood money, Mr. Vance.”
“It’s not blood money, Oliver. It’s restitution,” Robert said softly. “And legally speaking, as my acknowledged biological son and primary heir under New York intestacy laws—given that I am rewriting my will tonight—you are entitled to every brick of this empire.”
Oliver stood up, pushing his chair back. “You think a check can buy back thirty years of my mother working herself to death? You think a penthouse suite can replace the nights she cried herself to sleep while I did my homework by candlelight?”
“No,” Robert said, standing up to face him. “I don't. But it’s the only tool I have left to try and make the world right.”
Before Oliver could answer, the boardroom doors flew open with a sharp crash.
May you like
Victoria marched inside, flanked by two armed private security guards and her father, industrialist Arthur Sterling. Arthur was seventy-eight, rail-thin, with cold, ruthless eyes that had crushed competitors for half a century.
“So,” Arthur Sterling rasped, his voice like dry leaves scraping across concrete. “The stray dog has finally bitten the hand that fed it.”
