Chapter 3 - The Boardroom Raid
At 2:15 PM, while Adrian was still locked in emergency consultations with his panic-stricken legal team at a nearby hotel, a convoy of three dark sedans pulled up to the glittering glass headquarters of Hollis Transit Systems in Tyson’s Corner.
I stepped out of the lead vehicle, flanked by Arthur Vance—a formidable sixty-year-old corporate litigator I had quietly retained fourteen months prior—and three forensic accountants from Deloitte.
The lobby guard, a young man named Marcus who had worked at the front desk for four years, stood up quickly when he saw me. He was used to seeing me step out of the elevator once a month to drop off lunch for Adrian or pick up dry cleaning.
“Mrs. Hollis,” Marcus said, looking flustered. “Uh, Mr. Hollis isn't in his office right now. There are rumors going around the office about the court hearing...”
“I know he isn't here, Marcus,” I said, giving him a warm, reassuring smile. “And please, call me Ms. Lane. I need you to swipe us through to the executive suite on the fourteenth floor.”
“Ma'am, I... I’m not sure I have authorization to do that without Mr. Hollis or Ms. Ellison’s approval—”
Arthur Vance stepped forward, sliding a certified copy of Judge Calder’s emergency court order across the marble desk.
“This is an injunction freezing all executive operations and appointing Victoria Lane as sole temporary receiver,” Arthur stated coldly. “If you refuse to grant access, young man, you will be named as an accessory to corporate obstruction within the hour.”
Marcus swallowed hard, looked at the judge’s red seal, and immediately tapped his master keycard against the reader. “Elevator B is ready, Ms. Lane.”
When the elevator doors opened on the fourteenth floor, the atmosphere was chaotic. Employees were standing near the water coolers, whispering frantically over their phones. News of the court disaster had already spread through corporate group chats.
When they saw me walk out—not in my usual oversized sweater and sensible flats, but in a tailored black suit with my hair pulled back into a sharp, flawless knot—the chatter ceased entirely.
Paige Ellison’s assistant, a young woman named Clara, jumped up from her desk near the executive corner office.
“Ms. Lane! What is happening? Ms. Ellison called fifteen minutes ago and told me to clear out her hard drives and pack her desk boxes!”
I stopped at Clara’s desk. “Clara, if you touch a single power cable or remove one piece of paper from this floor, you will be committing a federal crime regarding evidence tampering in an active fraud investigation.”
Clara’s hands flew away from her keyboard as if the keys were on fire. “I haven't touched anything! I swear!”
“Good girl,” I said gently. “Now, please call security and have them change the lock codes on the main server room and Adrian’s office immediately. No one leaves this floor with bags or flash drives.”
I pushed open the double glass doors to Adrian’s sprawling corner office—the office I had helped choose six years ago when the building was completed.
Across the room sat a massive desk made of imported Italian walnut, framed by panoramic windows overlooking the Northern Virginia skyline. Sitting on the corner of that desk was a silver-framed photograph of Adrian and Paige at a charity polo match in the Hamptons—a photo taken while I was at home nursing the boys through a severe bout of pneumonia.
I walked over, picked up the frame, and dropped it casually into the brass wastebasket beside the desk.
“Arthur,” I said, turning to my lead attorney. “Start the audit on the procurement contracts for the East Coast expansion. I want every invoice cross-referenced with Paige Ellison’s personal accounts by midnight.”
“Right away, Victoria,” Arthur replied, motioning for the Deloitte team to begin setting up their equipment.
Just then, the office landline rang. I stepped around the desk, pressed the speaker button, and smoothed my skirt.
“Hollis Transit Systems, Executive Suite,” I said coolly.
“Victoria!” Adrian’s voice roared through the speaker, distorted by rage and static. “What the hell are you doing at my office?! Security just told me you’re locking down the servers!”
“Correction, Adrian,” I replied, leaning against the walnut desk. “I am locking down my servers. You have two hours to remove your personal clothing from our house in Great Falls. After 5:00 PM, the private security firm I hired will deny you entry to the property.”
“You can’t kick me out of my own home!” he screamed. “The deed is in my name!”
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“The deed was purchased using funds drawn from Hollis Transit Systems Account #4092,” I said smoothly. “Which, as of two hours ago, Judge Calder classified as disputed marital property under my sole receivership. Good day, Adrian.”
I pressed the red button, disconnecting the call, and looked out over the city.
