Chapter 8 - The Plaza Hotel
The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of crystal chandeliers, gold-leaf pillars, and tuxedos. Hundreds of the world's most powerful shipping magnates, hedge fund managers, and private equity directors filled the room, sipping champagne while glowing digital boards displayed bidding metrics for the maritime clearing rights.
On the main stage stood Samuel Vance. He looked older than he had in the photographs on my father's desk, with sleek gray hair, a thin mustache, and an expensive custom tuxedo. Beside him on a velvet pedestal rested the forged second volume of the journal.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Samuel’s voice echoed through the high-caliber sound system. "What you see before you is the culmination of sixty years of unassailable financial architecture. The Russo family legacy is at an end, and tonight, the clearing rights pass to the highest bidder."
The bidding screen flickered: $1.2 Billion.
"Do I hear one point three billion for the master key?" Samuel asked, a triumphant smile spreading across his face.
"The key is counterfeit!" a voice cut through the ballroom like a steel blade.
The double doors at the back of the ballroom swung open.
Dominic Russo walked in, flanked by six security officers in dark suits. But he wasn't leading the procession.
Walking beside him, wearing an elegant navy blue silk dress with my hair pinned up in a neat, classical braid, was me. I carried my father’s worn black leather satchel over my shoulder.
The room erupted into mutters and whispers. Security guards hired by Viktor Hale immediately stepped forward to block the center aisle, but Dominic’s team formed an iron wall around us, forcing their way smoothly toward the stage.
"Dominic!" Samuel laughed nervously into the microphone, though his eyes darted frantically toward the side exits. "You’re too late! The auction is legally binding under international commercial code!"
"The auction is a fraud, Samuel," I called out, taking the wireless microphone from a startled technician near the sound booth. My voice echoed loud and clear through the massive crystal chandeliers.
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Samuel looked down at me, his lip curling in contempt. "Who let a child into this room? Security, remove her!"
"My name is Maya Vance," I said, stepping directly to the front of the stage, looking up at the man who had ruined my father’s life. "I am the daughter of Professor Julian Vance. And the book on that velvet pedestal is a third-rate forgery you created three years ago using stolen university drafts."
