Chapter 5 - The War for the Clients
At 2:00 PM, the atmosphere in the main glass-walled conference room on the second floor of our downtown office was tense enough to snap a wire.
Gathered around the oval table were five of Chicago’s most powerful property developers and private homeowners—people who represented over eight million dollars in active contracts for Carter Custom Interiors. Among them was Arthur Vance, a ruthless sixty-year-old real estate mogul who controlled three major residential tower developments along Lake Shore Drive.
Arthur sat at the head of the table, his arms crossed over his pin-striped suit, his brow furrowed in deep irritation.
“I didn't come here to talk to an assistant, Miss Carter,” Arthur said, his voice deep and raspy from forty years of heavy cigars. “Where is Richard? We were supposed to finalize the millwork sub-contracts for the Lake Shore project forty-eight hours ago.”
I sat opposite him, with Naomi on my left and Martin on my right. In front of each client was a neatly bound black folder containing a comprehensive project status report, a verified supply chain timeline, and a revised financial escrow agreement.
“My father is no longer with Carter Custom Interiors, Mr. Vance,” I said calmly, opening my own folder. “As of midnight on January first, I have assumed full operational and legal control of the firm as majority shareholder.”
Arthur let out a loud, contemptuous snort. “Is this some kind of family spat? Because I don't have time for domestic drama, young lady. If Richard isn't running this project, my board will terminate our contract by five o'clock today and re-assign the work to Northern Millwork.”
“If you re-assign the work to Northern Millwork, Mr. Vance,” Naomi interjected smoothly, leaning forward, “you will delay your grand opening by at least six months, incur a thirty percent cost increase, and forfeit your master installation permits for the lower ten floors.”
Arthur glared at Naomi, then turned his sharp eyes back to me. “And what makes you think you can deliver on time? You’re a marketer.”
“I’m the person who actually managed your project for the last six months, Mr. Vance,” I said, leaning forward and meeting his stare without flinching. “When my father told you three months ago that the custom walnut panels were delayed due to 'European shipping disruptions,' he lied to you. The panels were sitting in a warehouse in Indiana because he hadn't paid the supplier’s fifteen-thousand-dollar balance.”
Arthur froze, his thick eyebrows rising slightly.
“I personally paid that invoice out of my own funds three weeks ago,” I continued, pulling a receipt from my folder and sliding it across the glass table toward him. “The materials are currently on the shop floor downstairs. Frank Miller and his senior team began precision cutting at seven o'clock this morning.”
I opened the second tab of the folder in front of him.
“Under my father’s management, your deposit money was funneled into a general corporate account used to pay off older debts from other failed projects,” I explained clearly. “Under my management, your project funds will be placed into a segregated, audited escrow account at Chase Bank. You will receive weekly line-item expenditure reports, verified directly by Martin Hale.”
Arthur picked up the receipt, then flipped through the escrow agreement. He looked at the other four clients around the table, who were all carefully examining the documents I had provided.
“You’re telling me Richard was robbing Peter to pay Paul?” Arthur asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark growl.
“I’m telling you my father ran this company on promises and smoke,” I replied bluntly. “I run it on contracts, audited escrow, and the best thirty-two craftsmen in the Midwest. If you walk out that door today, Mr. Vance, you walk away from the only team in Chicago that can finish your building on schedule.”
Silence filled the conference room for nearly two minutes. The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock and the quiet rustle of paper as Arthur reviewed the escrow terms Naomi had drafted.
Finally, Arthur set the folder down flat on the table. He leaned back in his chair, taking a long, slow breath as he studied my face.
“You don't look like your father, Miss Carter,” Arthur said, a faint, almost imperceptible trace of respect touching his harsh voice. “Richard would have spent thirty minutes giving me a speech about legacy and friendship while trying to hide his accounting books.”
“I don't have time for speeches, Mr. Vance,” I said. “I have a deadline to meet.”
Arthur reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a thick montblanc pen, and turned to the signature page of the revised escrow agreement.
May you like
“If my walnut panels aren't on site by Friday morning, Emily,” Arthur said, signing his name with quick, aggressive strokes, “I’ll fire you myself.”
“They’ll be there Thursday afternoon, Mr. Vance,” I replied, standing up to shake his hand. “With six hours to spare.”
