Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Boardroom
The leather of the journal was brittle with age. As I carefully turned the yellowed pages, David’s precise, neat handwriting filled the paper. He had recorded dates, times, vehicle license plates, and descriptions of the men who had threatened him in the days following my accident.
Page 42 contained a handwritten diagram of my ruined sports car, along with a crude drawing of the GPS tracking device.
Beneath the drawing, David had written a single serial number: TRK-8894-B-ATL.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
I recognized that alphanumeric code format instantly. It wasn't a commercial GPS tracker bought off the internet. It was a proprietary asset tag manufactured by Oseni Security Dynamics—a subsidiary company created by my uncle Arthur in 2005 to handle security for our luxury hotels across North America.
“He didn't just hire hitmen,” I muttered, my blood turning to liquid fire. “He used our own corporate security division to track my car and cut my brake lines. He paid for my murder using company funds.”
“How did he get away with it for twenty years?” Grace asked, her eyes fixed on the journal.
“Because I was twenty-four, grieving my father’s sudden heart attack, and completely useless at business,” I said bitterly. “When I survived the crash, Arthur acted like my savior. He told the board of directors that I was too emotionally unstable and traumatized to run Oseni Hospitality. He placed himself as Chairman, gave himself forty percent of the voting shares, and forced me into a figurehead role as CEO where I spent twenty years doing press tours and opening hotels while he ran the financial infrastructure.”
I stood up, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the rain-soaked garden.
“Arthur is hosting the Annual Oseni Leadership Gala at the Midtown Flagship Hotel on Friday night,” I said quietly. “He’s announcing a three-billion-dollar buyout deal with a European investment group. If the sale goes through, he gets complete immunity from corporate audits, liquidates all company assets, and retires to a non-extradition country in South America.”
Grace stood up, walking over to stand beside me. Her posture was no longer that of a hesitant housekeeper; there was a fierce, sharp intelligence in her eyes—the same resolve her father had carried when he pulled me from a burning car.
“Then we don’t let the sale go through,” she said.
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“It’s dangerous, Grace,” I warned her, turning to look at her face. “Arthur controls the hotel security staff. He controls the corporate board. If he realizes we have this journal and that you are David’s daughter, he won’t hesitate to use violence again.”
Grace took a long, steady breath. “My father died because he was alone against Arthur Oseni. You’re not alone anymore, Henry. And neither am I.”
