Chapter 6 - The Desperate Ploy
While the executive suite on the forty-second floor was being systematically dismantled, Bianca St. Claire was engaged in her own frantic bid for survival.
She sat in the private VIP lounge of an ultra-exclusive Fifth Avenue boutique, surrounded by velvet curtains and crystal flutes of untouched prosecco. Outside, the rain beat heavily against the tinted glass. Bianca’s hands were shaking violently as she refreshed her Instagram feed.
It was a bloodbath.
Every major sponsor had pulled out of her lifestyle brand. Her agency had dropped her via an impersonal email at 6:00 AM. High-end designers were demanding that she return borrowed garments, and the comments section on her social media had become a raging bonfire of public condemnation.
Worse, her primary black card—a corporate card tied to Corrigan Health’s secondary expense accounts—had been declined twenty minutes ago when she attempted to purchase an eight-thousand-dollar Chanel trench coat to 'soothe her nerves.'
"Declined?" Bianca had shrieked at the boutique manager. "Try it again! There must be an error with your machine!"
"I'm sorry, Miss St. Claire," the manager had replied, her polite smile masking thinly veiled contempt. "The issuer has flagged the account as 'Frozen by Court Order.' We cannot process the transaction."
Furious, terrified, and utterly detached from reality, Bianca grabbed her handbag and stormed out of the boutique. She knew where Iris Vance volunteered on Monday afternoons: the St. Jude Children's Community Outreach Center in lower Manhattan.
"I can fix this," Bianca muttered to herself as she hailed a cab, her designer heels splashing through street puddles. "That little volunteer just wants to feel important. She wants an apology. If I give her a public apology, she’ll call off her husband. Miles will get his money back, and this whole nightmare will go away."
Thirty minutes later, Bianca pushed open the heavy glass doors of the pediatric center’s community annex.
The contrast between Bianca and her surroundings was grotesque. Dressed in a cream cashmere wrap, oversized sunglasses, and leather leggings, she stood in a bright, colorful waiting room decorated with children’s crayon drawings and plastic play structures. Several mothers holding sick infants looked up in confusion.
Iris was there, kneeling on a foam mat, helping a four-year-old girl with a bald head and an IV pole assemble a wooden puzzle.
Iris had changed out of her boardroom suit into a practical soft woolen sweater and dark slacks. When she heard the sharp clack of Bianca’s heels on the linoleum floor, she looked up.
Her expression didn't show surprise. It showed nothing more than mild, tired irritation.
Iris stood up smoothly, whispered something comforting to the child’s mother, and walked toward the reception partition, away from the children.
"You have five seconds to leave this building before I have security remove you," Iris said, her voice quiet and steady.
Bianca immediately pulled down her sunglasses, her face contorting into an exaggerated mask of penitence. "Iris! Please! Listen to me!"
Bianca fell to her knees right there on the linoleum floor, clasping her hands together in a dramatic, theatrical plea.
"I was wrong!" Bianca sobbed, tears spilling rapidly down her cheeks. "At the gala... I was stressed, I had too much champagne, I wasn't in my right mind! You have to believe me! I didn't know who you were!"
"You didn't know who I was," Iris repeated coldly. "Which means if I had been an actual minimum-wage catering worker, your behavior would have been perfectly acceptable to you."
Bianca flinched, caught in her own trap. "No! I mean, yes—I mean, I'm a terrible person, okay? Is that what you want me to say? I'm saying it! I'm sorry! Please, call off Julian! Tell him to unfreeze the accounts! They took my credit cards, Iris! They’re kicking Miles out of his company! We will lose everything!"
Iris looked down at the sobbing heiress with profound pity—not the kind of pity that softens into mercy, but the kind of pity one feels for a hollow, broken creature that has never understood the value of another human soul.
"You haven't lost everything yet, Bianca," Iris said softly. "The real consequences haven't even started."
Bianca’s tearful facade instantly shattered. Her eyes hardened into pure, venomous spite. She scrambled to her feet, her voice dropping into a vicious hiss.
"You think you’re so righteous, don't you?" Bianca spat, stepping into Iris’s personal space. "You think because your billionaire husband has a shiny reputation, you can destroy us? Let me tell you something, Iris. Miles has files on Julian Vance. Miles knows about Julian’s offshore accounts in the Caymans! He has evidence of insider trading from three years ago! If you take us down, Miles will release every dirty secret Julian has to the SEC! We will drag your precious family through the mud until your name is as ruined as ours!"
Iris didn't blink. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and tapped the screen.
The display showed an active, ongoing phone call on speaker.
"Julian," Iris said calmly into the microphone. "Did you hear that?"
Julian’s deep, calm voice resonated from the speaker, echoing clearly off the walls of the clinic waiting room.
"I heard every word, darling," Julian replied smoothly. "Tell Miss St. Claire that my tax filings and divestment portfolios have been fully audited and published annually with the SEC since 2018. But more importantly... tell her that attempting to extort a federal witness in an active DOJ investigation carries an automatic five-year enhancement under 18 U.S. Code Section 1512."
Bianca froze, all the color draining from her face.
"Two security officers are walking through the clinic doors right now, Bianca," Iris said, sliding her phone back into her pocket. "If you ever come near me, my husband, or these children again, you won't be waiting for your trial on bail. You will be held in federal detention at MDC Brooklyn."
Two burly, uniform security guards flanked Bianca, grabbing her arms firmly.
May you like
As they dragged her kicking and screaming toward the glass exit doors, Iris turned her back, knelt back down onto the foam mat, and picked up the next piece of the little girl’s puzzle.
***
