Chapter 3 - Descending to the Vault
The private wealth management floor of Crestmont National didn’t smell like cheap office carpet and stale breakroom coffee. It smelled of polished mahogany, aged leather, and absolute, crushing wealth. Located three stories beneath the street level, this subterranean vault was designed to insulate high-net-worth clients, foreign dignitaries, and legacy dynasties from the chaotic noise of everyday retail banking.
The lighting here was warm and subdued. Silent security personnel in tailored black suits stood stationed at reinforced steel corridors, nodding respectfully as I stepped out of the private elevator.
I walked straight past the marble reception desk, where junior associates usually scrambled to greet visiting VIPs. Today, senior private banking director Arthur Vance—no relation to Vanessa, thankfully—was reviewing account ledgers behind his glass partition. When he looked up and saw me walking toward his office, his face transformed from professional boredom to absolute, stunned disbelief.
Arthur stood up so fast his leather chair rolled backward and slammed into the wood-paneled wall.
"Mr... Mr. Mercer?" Arthur stammered, stepping out of his office with wide eyes. "Sir, security just notified us that your employee credentials were deactivated upstairs. What are you doing down here? Did something happen?"
"Good morning, Arthur," I said smoothly, setting my cardboard box down on the edge of his immaculate conference table. "Something happened upstairs, yes. A minor administrative restructuring. I am no longer a senior relationship manager for Crestmont National's retail division."
Arthur’s face drained of color. He knew my background. He knew my file. He knew what my employee badge really represented beneath its standard retail-tier exterior.
"They... they fired you?" Arthur whispered, horrified. "Preston Hale terminated your employment? Over what? Good God, Daniel, does he have any idea—"
"Preston has no idea about anything outside his own reflection," I interrupted, pulling a sleek, encrypted hardware token from my pocket and sliding it across the polished mahogany desk. "Arthur, let’s skip the pleasantries. I have twenty-four accounts under various family trusts, holding entities, and offshore holdings consolidated under our primary umbrella. I want an immediate, full liquidation and transfer of every single cent."
Arthur stared at the hardware token as if it were a live grenade. He reached out with trembling fingers, plugged the token into his secure terminal, and tapped in my master cryptographic passphrase.
The biometric scanner flashed green, reading my fingerprint and retinal confirmation simultaneously.
On the massive dual monitors mounted against the office wall, the central database of Crestmont National's private ledger began to populate. Account after account scrolled down the screen in cascading columns of green text: foreign equity funds, commercial real estate holdings, sovereign bond portfolios, liquid capital reserves.
And then, the consolidated balance summary hit the screen in bold, unyielding numbers.
TOTAL LIQUID ASSETS: $63,482,914.12
May you like
Arthur gasped, gripping the edge of his desk to keep his balance. Sixty-three million, four hundred eighty-two thousand, nine hundred fourteen dollars and twelve cents.
In a single instant, over four percent of Crestmont National's entire regional liquidity reserve was sitting right there on Arthur’s monitor—every single penny owned, controlled, and directly managed by the man Preston Hale had just fired over a seventeen-dollar overdraft fee.
