Chapter 4 - THE CORPORATE VULTURES
The next morning, the Lawson Atlantic executive boardroom was a theater of tension.
Thomas sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his eyes dark with exhaustion. Opposite him sat Arthur Sterling, leaning back in his leather chair with an air of smug satisfaction. Around the table, seven other board members reviewed the quarterly financial projections.
"The Seaport Plaza development is three weeks behind schedule, Thomas," Sterling pointed out, his voice silky and laced with poison. "And the city zoning board is threatening to pull the permits if we don't present the revised environmental impact study by Friday. You were supposed to meet with the mayor yesterday."
"I had a personal matter," Thomas said flatly.
"Ah, yes. The adoption," Sterling said, making sure the word hung in the air just long enough to sound like an accusation. "We are all very happy for you, Thomas. Truly. But bringing a special-needs child into a home that is still... recovering... is a massive undertaking. The board is simply concerned that your focus might be understandably divided."
Thomas's eyes narrowed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "My focus is exactly where it needs to be, Arthur. The Seaport Plaza will be finished on time, and I will hand-deliver the environmental report to the mayor tomorrow morning. Do not ever question my commitment to this firm."
"Of course not," Sterling smiled, though his eyes remained dead.
After the meeting, Sterling returned to his private office and picked up a burner phone. He dialed a number he knew by heart.
"Did you get the medical files from St. Michael's?" Sterling asked the private investigator on the other end.
"I had to bribe a records clerk, but yes," the voice replied. "The kid's condition is deteriorating. She needs a highly experimental spinal surgery. Out of pocket, it's going to cost nearly two million dollars, and it requires Thomas to take at least three months of leave to manage her post-op care."
Sterling grinned. "Perfect. I want those records leaked to the Wall Street Journal anonymously by Thursday. We spin the narrative: 'Lawson Atlantic CEO mentally unstable, liquidating personal assets, preparing for indefinite leave.' The shareholders will panic. The board will have no choice but to trigger the emergency succession clause. I will be CEO by Friday."
Meanwhile, back at the estate, Elise was sitting in the conservatory. The massive glass walls let in the bright afternoon sun, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
Clare entered the room to retrieve a book, freezing when she saw the child.
Elise was trying to reach a colored pencil that had rolled off the low table onto the floor, but her spine lacked the strength to bend sideways without falling. She struggled, her small face turning red with frustration, until she finally slumped back into her chair, defeated.
Clare watched her. The silence stretched. Then, slowly, Clare walked over, picked up the pencil, and placed it on the table.
"Thank you," Elise whispered, not looking up.
"You're drawing," Clare observed softly.
Elise nodded, turning the paper slightly. It was a crude, childlike drawing of a house with many windows. But there were no people in it. Just a big, empty house.
"Why isn't anyone home?" Clare asked, her voice tight.
May you like
"Because people leave," Elise said simply. "But houses stay."
Clare felt a sharp, agonizing twist in her chest. She turned and fled the room, unable to bear the mirror this broken child was holding up to her own shattered soul.
