Chapter 7 - The Sterling-Vance Tower
The Sterling-Vance Tower dominated the downtown skyline like a monolith of glass, steel, and ruthless ambition.
At 8:45 AM the next morning, I stood before the towering revolving glass doors of the lobby, wearing a sharp, tailored navy pantsuit I had bought with my very first freelance paycheck two years ago. My hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail, and my expression was as hard as tempered steel.
Riley was safely napping in her stroller, resting in the care of Mrs. Collins and Marcus Vance, who had agreed to wait in a nearby coffee shop with emergency injunction papers ready to file the moment I gave the signal.
I didn't need a visitor badge. When I walked up to the high-security reception desk, I simply slid Dr. Harrison Vance’s signed presidential signet ring—which he had pressed into my hand along with the blue folder yesterday—across the polished marble counter.
The receptionist took one look at the ring, blanched, and whispered into her headset.
“Penthouse boardroom, Ms. Sterling. The elevator is unlocked for you.”
The private express elevator whisked me up fifty floors in less than thirty seconds, the digital floor numbers flashing upward in a blur of glowing red digits. When the doors slid open with a soft chime, I stepped out onto a private observation floor paved with Italian marble and surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
The boardroom double doors at the end of the hall were slightly ajar.
From inside, raised voices echoed through the corridor.
“I will not authorize a payout to a woman who spent twenty-five years hiding in the suburbs!” an elderly, gravelly voice barked with authoritative fury. “Arthur, listen to me—if Valerie Mendoza steps foot in this building with those documents, the SEC will be auditing our foundation by sundown!”
“She’s my granddaughter, Harrison,” another, older voice replied calmly, though laced with unmistakable steel. “And her mother was my daughter. The debt has to be paid.”
I didn't wait to be announced. I walked straight up to the mahogany double doors, pushed them open with both hands, and stepped directly into the room.
The conversation died instantly.
Around an enormous, oval conference table sat twelve of the most powerful corporate executives in the Pacific Northwest. At the head of the table sat an elderly man with piercing white hair and sharp, hawklike features—Arthur Sterling Sr. To his left sat Dr. Harrison Vance, looking tired but vindicated.
And sitting near the far end of the table, dressed in a crisp charcoal suit with his head bowed over a leather portfolio, was Evan.
When the doors opened, Evan looked up.
May you like
His eyes locked onto mine. The color drained completely from his face, his breath catching in his throat as he pushed his chair back so hard it screeched against the marble floor.
“Valerie?” he whispered, his voice trembling across the silent room.
