Chapter 4 - The Puppet Master's Shadow
The lobby of Bellamy Tower was an imposing monument to my father’s ego.
Forty-foot slabs of polished Italian marble rose toward a vaulted glass ceiling. In the center of the rotunda stood a bronze scale model of the city’s downtown district, with every Bellamy-constructed building highlighted by an under-floor spotlight.
As I walked through the revolving doors beside Martin Cole, the head of security, Frank Kowalski, stepped out from behind the reception desk. Frank was fifty-eight years old, an ex-marine with thinning hair who had worked for my father since the year I was born.
“Miss Emily,” Frank said, his eyes dropping to my immobilized right arm. “I heard about what happened at the club last night. The boys on the night shift were talking. Are you all right?”
“I’m standing, Frank,” I replied softly. “Is Vanessa upstairs?”
Frank looked around the lobby, then lowered his voice. “She arrived forty minutes ago. Looking like the queen of England. But that’s not all. Julian Vance’s senior legal counsel, Richard Sterling, arrived ten minutes after her. He went straight up to the executive floor via the private elevator.”
Martin and I exchanged a sharp glance.
“Vance isn't waiting,” Martin muttered. “He’s moving in for the kill before the board even sits.”
“Thank you, Frank,” I said, reaching into my bag and handing him a folded legal notice. “Do not let anyone else up to the thirty-second floor without checking with Martin first. If anyone tries to leave with external hard drives or paper archives, detain them under the corporate preservation order cited on that paper.”
Frank took the document, scanned Martin’s signature at the bottom, and gave a crisp nod. “Understood, Miss Emily. Good luck up there.”
Martin and I stepped into the private executive lift. As the car surged smoothly upward, the digital floor indicator clicked: *10... 15... 20...*
My shoulder throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, but my mind was icy.
Vanessa had spent her life believing that charm was an acceptable substitute for competence. She believed that because she could command a room with a cocktail smile, flatter local politicians, and wear four-thousand-dollar designer suits, the tedious, brutal mechanics of corporate finance didn't apply to her. She thought numbers were flexible things that could be bullied into submission.
She was about to discover that numbers have no sentiment.
The elevator chimed. Floor thirty-two.
The doors slid open to reveal the executive suite: plush silver-gray carpet, abstract oil paintings, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the misty skyline.
Laughter drifted down the hall from the corner boardroom.
My father’s booming voice carried easily: *“...and when you look at what this young lady has done with the riverfront acquisition, you’re looking at the next twenty years of this city’s progress! She’s got my drive, gentlemen. My instinct!”*
Polite, deferential applause followed.
Martin and I walked down the corridor. Our footsteps were muffled by the carpet. We paused outside the frosted-glass double doors of the boardroom.
Inside, sitting around a twenty-foot mahogany conference table, were the twelve members of the board of directors. At the head of the table sat my father, Arthur Bellamy, resplendent in a three-piece charcoal suit, a red silk pocket square peeking from his breast pocket.
To his right sat Vanessa.
She wore an emerald-green tailored dress that screamed confidence. Her blonde hair was swept up in an elegant chignon; her diamond earrings caught the morning light. On the table before her sat an open leather presentation binder and a crystal glass of sparkling water.
And sitting at the far end of the table, looking like a vulture in a bespoke Italian suit, was Richard Sterling—Julian Vance’s chief enforcer.
“Ah!” Arthur spotted us through the glass as Martin pushed the door open. My father’s smile instantly withered into a look of heavy patronization. “Emily. I see you decided to show up after all. I trust you’re ready to offer Vanessa the apology we discussed?”
Every head in the room turned toward me.
Vanessa didn't flinch. She leaned back in her high-backed leather chair, folded her hands across her lap, and gave me a look of pure, concentrated pity.
“Oh, Dad, leave it,” Vanessa said smoothly, her voice dripping with artificial magnanimity. “Emily had a rough night. Her balance has never been great, especially after the crash. Let’s just let her sit in the back row so she can watch how a real commercial transition works.”
A couple of the younger board members chuckled nervously.
I didn't move toward the back row.
Instead, I stepped directly to the center of the room, walked to the head of the table, and set my heavy black portfolio down with a resounding *thud* right between my father and my sister.
“Good morning, members of the board,” I said, my voice cutting through the climate-controlled air like a razor. “My name is Emily Bellamy. I am a Certified Public Accountant, a Certified Fraud Examiner, and the holder of eight percent of the voting equity of Bellamy Development.”
Arthur’s face flushed crimson. “Emily! What the devil is this? We are in the middle of an executive briefing!”
May you like
“No, Dad,” I said, looking down at him with steady, unblinking eyes. “You’re in the middle of a corporate execution. And you're the one on the scaffold.”
***
