Chapter 4 - The Ultimatum
By midnight, the executive lounge had turned into a command center of quiet despair.
I had arranged for a car to take Abana and the girls to a luxury suite at the Peninsula Hotel, complete with a private physician on call and room service catering to whatever comfort food seven-year-olds ate. Abana had fought me on it, wanting to return to their tiny two-bedroom walk-up in Humboldt Park, but when she nearly collapsed in the elevator, she finally surrendered.
Now, I was alone in my office, staring through the double oak doors as the elevator bell chimed.
Arthur Vance walked in.
He didn't knock. He didn't ask for permission. Arthur was sixty-four years old, possessed silver hair cut with razor-like precision, and carried the quiet, terrifying arrogance of old Boston wealth. He was Dorothy’s father, but more importantly, he controlled thirty-five percent of the voting shares in Ross Dynamics.
“You have twelve hours,” Arthur said, stopping three paces from my desk. His overcoat was still draped over his shoulders, unbuttoned, revealing a tailored charcoal suit.
“Good evening to you too, Arthur,” I said, resting my elbows on the desk.
“Dorothy is currently at our home in Lake Forest, sedated by our family physician,” Arthur continued, his voice cold and flat as a sheet of ice. “She was humiliated in front of two hundred of the most influential people in the Midwest. Society reporters are already circulating drafts of the story. The *Chicago Tribune* is holding the morning column until 6:00 AM for comment.”
“It’s not a scandal, Arthur. They’re my daughters.”
“They are a disaster,” Arthur snapped, slamming an open palm against the edge of the wood. “Ross Dynamics goes public in fourteen days! We are looking at a four-billion-dollar valuation. Wall Street does not invest in deadbeat fathers who abandon pregnant women in dive bars and get ambushed during their own engagement announcements!”
“I didn't abandon a pregnant woman in a dive bar,” I said, my teeth grinding together so hard my jaw ached. “I made a terrible, cowardly mistake seven years ago. And I am going to fix it.”
Arthur let out a short, mocking laugh. “Fix it? You think you can play family man now? The woman looks like she walked out of a municipal clinic. She came for one thing, David. A payout. Write her a check. Give her two million dollars, set up an offshore educational trust for the brats, and have her sign an airtight non-disclosure agreement before dawn.”
The word *brats* echoed in the quiet room.
Something inside me, some carefully cultivated corporate veneer that I had polished for seven years to fit into Arthur Vance’s world, shattered into dust.
“Get out,” I said.
Arthur froze, his brows knitting together in genuine disbelief. “What did you say to me?”
“Get out of my office.” I stood up, rounding the desk until I was inches from his face. “Dorothy has every right to hate me. She has every right to never speak to me again. But if you refer to my daughters like that again, I will pull Ross Dynamics from the IPO pipeline, tank the private valuation, and take the tax write-off just to watch your venture fund choke on its own margins.”
Arthur stared at me, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “You’re bluffing. You sacrificed everything for this company. You slept on the floor of a server room for three years.”
“Try me,” I whispered.
Arthur pulled his coat tighter around his frame. He smiled—a thin, vicious curve of his lips that signaled total war.
“You think this is about a broken heart, David? Look into who Abana really is before you throw your life away for her. You might find that some reunions are planned long before the curtain goes up.”
May you like
With that cryptic warning, Arthur turned on his polished Italian loafers and vanished into the elevator, leaving me alone with the silence of the night.
***
