“I’m so sorry, Mr. Sterling,” I said, injecting just enough tremor into my voice to sell the part. “I forgot to mention – the document scanner is down.
IT says the network’s undergoing maintenance.”
Sterling frowned in manufactured annoyance.
“That’s unfortunate.”
Julian waved a hand.
“It’s fine,” he said quickly. “You can just take the hard copy. Everything’s there.”
“I’m afraid compliance requires a digital original for blockchain verification,” I said smoothly.
“We can’t accept paper documents for initial partner vetting. It’s a security protocol.”
I forced myself not to look at my father.
“Sir,” I said, turning to Julian with what I hoped passed for an apologetic smile, “could you forward the PDF directly from your banking app to the address on this card? We can project it on the main screen and process it instantly.”
I tapped the tablet in front of Sterling.
He slid it across the table, the email address for “Compliance”– an inbox I controlled – glowing on the screen.
For a moment, Julian didn’t move.
You could almost hear the gears grinding in his head.
If he opened his actual banking app in this room, everyone would see the truth – a balance barely north of four hundred dollars, not a six-figure cushion.
But he didn’t plan to open the app.
He had something better.
He reached for his laptop.
“Right now?” he asked, voice tighter than before.
Sterling checked the Rolex at his wrist.
“Time is money, Mr. Vance,” he said. “If we can’t verify funds in the next ten minutes, I have another candidate waiting in the lobby.”
Panic will make a greedy man do anything.
Julian opened his laptop and typed with the jerky urgency of someone trying to outrun their own common sense.
From my angle at the sideboard, I could see the screen reflected faintly in the glass.
Email client. New message. Attachment field.
He navigated to a folder on his desktop labeled “Docs.” Inside was a single file.
CapOne_statement_Oct_edit.pdf.
He clicked, attached, and hit send.
My phone buzzed in my blazer pocket not even a full second later.
Ping.
I pulled it out as unobtrusively as I could and glanced down.
The email. The attachment. The smoking gun.
In less than ten seconds, my brother had just transmitted a forged financial statement across state lines via the internet in an attempt to secure a financial interest.
People call that a lot of things.
The FBI calls it wire fraud.
Julian exhaled, shoulders dropping as if he’d just finished a marathon.
“Done,” he said.
“You should have it.”
Sterling’s tablet chimed. He opened the file and scanned it with an expression that revealed nothing.
“I see it,” he said. “Thank you.”
He tapped the screen a few times, making a show of checking numbers against a phantom benchmark.
“Liquidity is verified,” he announced finally, closing the tablet.
Julian’s grin came back full force.
Arthur sagged in his chair, relief washing over his features.
“However,” Sterling added, and the word landed like a dropped brick, “per fund bylaws, there is a twenty-four-hour clearing period for digital transfers.
To lock in your partnership seat today before the Asian markets open, we require immediate collateral.”
He reached into his portfolio and pulled out a sheaf of blue legal paper.
“This is a deed of trust,” he explained, laying it on the table and rotating it so it faced Arthur. “It places a short-term lien on your primary residence at 42 Oak Street, Evanston, to secure the $150,000 partner buy-in until the wire transfer clears tomorrow. Once the cash hits our account, the lien dissolves automatically.
Standard procedure for high-velocity deals.”
Silence sucked the air right out of the room.
Arthur’s hand hovered above the document.
I watched his eyes flick from the address to the figure printed neatly beneath it.
A six-figure bet staked on a house he’d spent thirty years paying off.
The last thing he truly owned.
“Is this really necessary?” he asked, some of the bombast bleeding out of his voice. “You have the statement.”
Sterling glanced at his watch.
“The board requires hard assets, Mr. Vance.
If you’re uncomfortable, we can offer the seat to the next candidate.”
For a heartbeat, I thought Arthur might walk away.
If he did, the leverage I’d built would evaporate. I’d still have Julian on a wire-fraud hook, but the house would remain out of reach, protected by the same stubbornness that had kept him clinging to Julian’s potential all these years.
For the first time since I’d walked into the room, real fear slid thin and cold through my chest.
What if he actually chose prudence now?
Julian leaned in, eyes bright and frantic.
“Dad, come on,” he hissed. “Don’t mess this up.
It’s twenty-four hours. The money’s there. Once I’m partner, the signing bonus alone will cover the Boca condo.
Golf course view, just like you wanted. You’ll be the envy of the whole club.”
You could almost see the word Boca float across Arthur’s face like a halo.
For thirty years he’d been betting on Julian – on his charm, on his ideas, on some future payoff that never arrived. Walking away now would mean admitting the entire strategy had been wrong.
Arthur Vance did not admit mistakes.
“This is how men build empires,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
He looked at me then, just briefly, like maybe I might say something to stop him.
I kept my face smooth.
The quiet daughter in the corner who didn’t understand what was happening.
He straightened his shoulders.
“We take risks,” he finished.
He picked up the pen.
The scratch of his signature on paper sounded louder than the traffic below.
Sterling notarized, stamped, and slid the deed back into his portfolio.
In that moment, the house at 42 Oak Street shifted.
It was no longer Arthur’s pride and joy.
It was collateral.
“Congratulations,” Sterling said, tucking the papers away. “Once the wire clears, we’ll finalize the partnership agreement.” He began to rise.
“When I upgrade security at the new estate, maybe I’ll hire you, Elena,” Julian called across the room, smugness restored now that ink was on paper. “You’ve always been good at standing quietly in corners.”
My mother laughed.
“With a better suit, maybe,” she added.
The pitcher felt suddenly weightless in my hands.
The room, the suits, the skyline – all of it snapped into sharp focus.
It was time.
I set the pitcher down carefully, water sloshing softly against glass.
“Actually,” I said, my voice cutting clean through the last threads of their laughter, “you won’t be hiring anyone.”
Every head at the table turned toward me like I’d materialized out of thin air.
My father’s eyes flashed.
“Elena, sit down,” he barked.
“We’re conducting real business here.”
I walked to the head of the table and pulled a slim HDMI cable from the conference hub, plugging it into the port on my phone.
The main screen on the wall blinked to life.
Sterling paused halfway to the door and looked at me, one brow raised.
“Give me a minute,” I told him quietly. “If I’m not downstairs in five, send the file to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”
His expression didn’t change, but he sat back down.
“What are you doing?” Julian demanded.
“You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Document A,” I said, swiping to the first file in my presentation.
The Blackwood logo filled the screen, followed by lines of text.
“Articles of incorporation for Northshore Recovery Holdings,” I read. “Operating entity for the debt fund that acquired Blackwood Partners’ distressed obligations two weeks ago.” I looked up at my father. “Owner: Elena Marie Vance.”
Silence dropped like a stone into deep water.
Arthur blinked.
“That’s not—” he started.
“I don’t work in administration,” I said.
“I’m not anyone’s assistant. I’m a distressed debt investor. When companies like this start bleeding money, I’m the one who buys the mess.
Three days ago, the Blackwood board signed control of the firm to my fund. Sterling works for me.”
My mother let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.
“This is ridiculous,” she said. “You?
Owning anything like this? Don’t be absurd.”
I ignored her.
“Document B.”
The screen shifted to a simple online banking dashboard.
“Real-time account balance for Julian Vance,” I said. “Checking, savings, cash equivalents.”
The number glowed on the screen: $4,126.73.
No extra zeros.
Julian went the color of old paper.
“You hacked me?” he stammered.
“No,” I said.
“Your brother may have forgotten, but you asked me to help you set up your online banking two summers ago. You never changed the password.”
My father stared at the number like looking harder might make it grow.
“There must be a mistake,” he said. “We just saw the statement.”
“Document C,” I said.
The next slide showed a PDF – the one Julian had just emailed.
I zoomed in on the metadata sidebar.
“Capital One statement, October,” I read.
