Chapter 9 - Page 323
My father’s Bible had not been opened in twenty-two years.
It sat inside the private Vance archive in Manhattan, behind climate-controlled glass with family letters, photographs, and documents no executive had ever seen.
At 10:40 p.m., Mom, Victor, Noah and I entered the archive.
I did not invite Marcus.
I did not trust him.
I also did not have him arrested.
Not yet.
That disturbed Victor.
It disturbed me more.
Page 323 contained the Book of Job.
Nothing unusual.
Then Mom noticed the binding.
A thin strip of paper had been sewn beneath the spine.
I cut it free.
Numbers.
Names.
Dates.
And one handwritten sentence:
NORTHSTAR DOES NOT PROTECT THE COMPANY FROM OUTSIDERS. IT PROTECTS CLAIRE FROM THE COMPANY.
My father’s handwriting.
Below it was a list of seven executives.
Six were dead.
The seventh name had been scratched away.
Victor photographed everything.
I stared at the dates.
One appeared repeatedly.
My thirty-third birthday.
“What happens when I turn thirty-three?”
Mom finally answered.
“You receive voting control of the Vance Group.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“I already control it.”
“No. You control the economic interest.”
The difference was enormous.
My trustees controlled the super-voting shares created after my father’s death. On my thirty-third birthday, those shares would convert.
I would become the first person in twenty-two years capable of removing the entire legacy board.
Someone had spent decades preparing for that day.
The $18.4 million transfer had been bait.
The real target was the emergency protocol triggered when I froze my holdings.
I looked at Victor.
“Who gets temporary voting authority?”
He was silent.
“Victor.”
“Northstar’s registered protector.”
“Who is that?”
“We don’t know.”
Then the archive lights switched off.
Not a power failure.
One row at a time.
Someone was inside.
Victor pushed Mom and Noah behind a cabinet.
Footsteps moved between the shelves.
I grabbed a brass letter opener.
A figure emerged.
Marcus.
His tuxedo jacket was gone. Blood stained his shirt.
Mom gasped.
“What happened?”
Marcus locked the door behind him.
“Victor happened.”
I looked at Victor.
He had vanished.
Marcus leaned against the wall.
“Claire, you’ve been asking the wrong question.”
“Where’s Daniel?”
“Alive.”
“Who took him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what do you know?”
Marcus pulled something from his pocket.
A photograph.
Victor Sloane standing beside my father.
Geneva.
Three years ago.
Marcus looked toward the empty doorway where Victor had been seconds earlier.
“You want to know who taught me about Northstar?”
He swallowed.
May you like
“It wasn’t your mother.”
“It was Victor.”
