Chapter 4 - The White Porcelain
Brendan didn't even look at his sister. He remained glued to the floor, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps, his gaze locked on the white urn resting in Chloe's crib.
"Brendan, did you hear me?" Ximena snapped, her voice rising an octave as she stepped into the room. "The American Express Centurion cards were declined at the club tonight! My wire transfer to the overseas brokerage was bounced back with a federal flag! What the hell is going—"
She stopped dead in her tracks.
Her gaze followed Brendan's line of sight into the crib. Her eyes landed on the gold-embossed letters on the urn. The wine glass slipped from her manicured fingers, hitting the plush carpet with a dull thud, the dark red liquid spreading like a pool of blood between her bare feet.
"What... what is that?" Ximena gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
"You told me it was just an infection," Brendan said. His voice was no longer arrogant. It was cracked, shrill, bordering on madness. He slowly turned his head toward his sister. "You told me Nora was exaggerating to get more allowance. You said she wanted seventy thousand dollars for private nursing that wasn't necessary!"
"She... she was always complaining!" Ximena shrieked, backing toward the hallway, her face contorting with guilt and terror. "Every month it was another specialist! Every month it was another round of imported medications! How was I supposed to know she would actually—"
"She was your niece," I said, cutting through her panic like a razor blade through silk.
Ximena looked at me, her eyes darting frantically. "Nora, listen to me... this was a misunderstanding. The family trust has strict internal protocols. The board has to approve any expenditure over ten thousand dollars during an active fiscal audit! You know how Dad set up the structure before he passed!"
"My father set up the structure," I replied calmly, walking over to the crib. I gently touched the cool top of the porcelain urn, smoothing away an invisible speck of dust. "Not yours. Your father was a bankrupted real estate speculator who died leaving your family twenty million dollars in unsecured commercial debt."
Brendan blinked, snapping out of his daze for a split second, confused by my words. "What are you talking about? My father built Fairchild Industries from the ground up."
"Your father built a house of cards," a deep, resonant voice echoed from the doorway.
Both Brendan and Ximena whipped around.
Standing in the hallway was Raymond Vance. At sixty-two, Raymond was a towering figure with silver hair, sharp slate-gray eyes, and a charcoal three-piece suit that cost more than Brendan's sports car. Flanking him were two men in dark suits carrying heavy leather briefcases, their expressions carved from granite.
"Who the hell authorized you to enter my home?" Brendan barked, trying to regain his dominant posture, though his shaking hands betrayed him. "Security! Where is the front gate guard?"
"The front gate guard works for Vance Corporate Management, Mr. Fairchild," Raymond said, stepping into the room with measured, deliberate authority. "As do the groundskeepers, the private security detail, and the maintenance staff. They have all been placed on administrative leave as of eleven o'clock tonight."
"This is my house!" Brendan yelled, stepping toward Raymond with clenched fists. "I am the CEO of Fairchild Industries! Get the hell out of my daughter's nursery before I have you arrested for criminal trespass!"
Raymond didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He merely reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses, and slipped them on.
"You were the CEO of Fairchild Industries, Brendan," Raymond said calmly. "Until twelve minutes ago, when eighty-two percent of the voting shares held in the Harrison Vanguard Trust exercised their executive authority to dissolve the current board of directors."
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Brendan froze. "The Harrison Trust? That's an independent hedge fund in Delaware. They don't have voting control over my family's legacy!"
"Your family never owned the legacy, Brendan," Raymond replied, pulling a thick folder from his assistant's hands and opening it beneath the dim nursery light. "Your father sold eighty-two percent of Fairchild Industries to Nora’s father, Arthur Vance-Harrison, twenty-two years ago to avoid a federal indictment for securities fraud. You didn't marry an orphan with a modest dowry, Mr. Fairchild. You married the sole heir to the entire conglomerate that kept your family out of federal prison."
