Chapter 4 - The Boardroom Ambush
The private executive boardroom on the forty-first floor of the Sullivan Tower was an oasis of soundproofed glass and polished Macassar ebony, suspended high above the glittering grid of Chicago’s night lights.
Outside, the city hummed under a cold November drizzle. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale espresso, expensive cologne, and the raw, suffocating panic of an empire under siege.
Ethan sat at the head of the conference table, his tuxedo jacket discarded on an armchair, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his tie dangling loose. He held his head in his hands, his fingers buried in his dark hair, staring at the polished wood as if waiting for it to open up and swallow him whole.
Across the table sat Beatrice, her face pale beneath her makeup, her knuckles white around her designer purse. Two senior corporate attorneys from Sullivan Group’s primary counsel stood near the door, sweating through their shirts as they rapidly traded whispers on their encrypted phones.
I sat in the center of the leather chairs, calm, my hands folded over the emerald silk of my lap.
To my left, Noah had already commandeered an executive swivel chair, his small feet barely brushing the carpet. He had opened a leather notebook, borrowed an expensive Montblanc pen from the credenza, and was methodically sketching a flow chart of Sullivan Group’s corporate subsidiaries.
Sophie was wandering along the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, admiring the twinkling reflection of the Willis Tower against her sparkly blue dress.
“Mom,” Sophie called out cheerfully, “if we take ten percent of this building, can we turn the helipad into a roller rink?”
“We’ll consult the structural engineering team first, Bug,” I replied without looking back.
The senior partner, Arthur Vance, cleared his throat nervously and stepped forward. “Mrs. Sullivan—pardon me, Ms. Campbell—we understand the sensitive nature of these revelations. However, Sullivan Group’s secondary public offering is scheduled for Monday morning. An unverified paternity claim leaked to the press could trigger an immediate suspension of trading by the SEC—”
“It’s not unverified,” Lucas Vance interrupted, tossing a heavy blue-bound dossier onto the center of the ebony table.
It landed with a dull, authoritative thud.
“LabCorp certified genetic markers,” Lucas stated, tapping the cover with a manicured finger. “Conducted under strict chain-of-custody protocols three weeks ago using standard follicular sampling from Mr. Sullivan’s personal locker at the Lake Shore Athletic Club. Ninety-nine point nine-nine-eight percent probability of parentage for both minors. The certified copies have already been electronically served to the Cook County Family Court clerk’s office as of seven o’clock tonight.”
Ethan slowly lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, hollowed out by a storm of emotions he couldn't control.
“Claire,” he said, his voice hoarse, ignoring his lawyers entirely. “Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you pick up the phone? Why did you let me spend ten years thinking you had taken the settlement and walked away with someone else?”
I let out a slow, cold laugh that made the lawyers shift uncomfortably.
“Someone else?” I repeated, leaning forward until my eyes locked with his. “Ethan, who told you I walked away with someone else?”
Ethan blinked, startled, his brow furrowing in confusion. “My mother. She brought me the investigator’s report three days after the fight. The photos of you at O’Hare boarding a flight to Miami with that contractor from Evanston. The signed receipts from the private clinic confirming you had terminated the pregnancy.”
The room went completely, terrifyingly still.
Beside me, Noah stopped writing. The Montblanc pen hovered a millimeter above his notebook.
I didn't blink. I slowly turned my head and looked directly at Beatrice Sullivan.
The older woman had shrunk into her chair. Her eyes were darting toward the double doors, her breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. The pearls around her neck seemed to be choking her.
“The private clinic in Evanston,” I whispered, every piece of the ten-year-old puzzle clicking into place with horrifying clarity. “The one where I was hospitalized for severe hyperemesis and dehydration three days after you threw me out.”
I turned back to Ethan, whose face was beginning to twist into something resembling sheer agony.
“I didn't go to Miami, Ethan,” I said, my voice steady, sharp, and cutting like a scalpel. “I was living in an eight-hundred-square-foot basement apartment behind a laundry mat on 63rd Street. Your mother came to my hospital room while I was hooked to an IV line. She had two security guards outside the door. She told me that if I didn't sign the non-disclosure agreement and surrender my rights to the Sullivan name, she would have the hospital discharge me into the street and tie my prenatal care up in litigation until the babies died inside me.”
Ethan’s chair screeched violently across the hardwood as he stood up, his towering frame trembling with a fury so violent it knocked a crystal water carafe off the table.
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It shattered against the floor, water and glass spraying across Beatrice’s designer shoes.
“Mother,” Ethan roared, the sound tearing from his throat like a wounded animal. “Look at me. Look at me right now!”
