Chapter Twenty-Nine
Vane
The Metropolitan Club smells like old money, leather-bound books, and the slow, dignified rot of a fading aristocracy. It's the perfect place for a fucking funeral.
I find Arthur in the back corner of the library, swallowed by a wingback chair that looks like a velvet coffin. A glass of neat Scotch sits on the table beside him, untouched—even he knows the alcohol won't dull this. He looks twenty years older than he did in the boardroom. The news cycle has been a meat grinder, and I've spent the last six hours feeding him into it, piece by piece.
I don't sit down. I stand over him, my hands in my pockets, a predator surveying a carcass that's finally stopped twitching.
"Vane," he says, his voice a dry, papery whisper that barely carries. "I assume you've come to gloat."
"I don't gloat, Arthur. It's a pathetic waste of breath. I've come to collect your resignation."
I pull a single sheet of paper from my breast pocket and lay it on the table. It is a formal, irrevocable departure from the board, the firm, and the family trust. It is the end of his life as he knows it.
"You used that girl," Arthur says, his eyes flicking toward the paper with pure, unadulterated loathing. "You recorded her. You set her up as bait in the garage like a goddamn tethered goat."
"I didn't set her up, Arthur. I simply anticipated your predictable lack of imagination. You thought you could buy her because you think every soul has a price tag. You failed to realize that Sloane Vance is not for sale to anyone but me."
"And what happens when she realizes what the fuck you actually are?" Arthur asks, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips—the look of a man who knows he's going to hell and is happy to see me in the seat next to him. "When she realizes you didn't leak that audio to save the firm, but to trap her? You've made her a pariah, Vane. She has nowhere to go but your office. No one will touch her. She's your prisoner."
"She is my partner," I snap. The word comes out with too much heat, too much raw emotion. It sounds like a lie even to me.
Arthur chuckles, a wet, hacking sound that turns into a cough. "Partner? You don't have partners. You have assets. And you just liquidated her reputation to secure your throne. You're more like me than you care to admit, nephew. You're just younger. And much, much more cruel."
I lean down, my face inches from his. I can smell the stale Scotch and the stench of a man who has lost his soul.
"The difference between us, Arthur, is that I'm not a coward. I don't hide behind 'legacy' or 'family values.' I wanted total control of Sterling, and I used the most effective tool I had to get it." I tap the resignation paper. "Sign it. Or the second audio file goes to the SEC tonight. The one where you discuss the insider trading on the Tokyo accounts. I think your cellmate would find your 'legacy' very fucking entertaining."
Arthur's hand shakes as he reaches for the pen. It's a slow, pathetic movement. He signs his name—the signature of a man who is officially a ghost.
I take the paper, folding it carefully and placing it back in my pocket. "Goodbye, Arthur. I'd say I'll see you at the holiday dinner, but I've already had you removed from the guest list. And the family tree. Don't bother calling."
I walk out of the club, the heavy oak doors closing behind me with a final, satisfying thud.
The city is glowing with the orange light of dusk. I stand on the sidewalk, breathing in the cold, metallic air of Manhattan. I won. The board is mine. The firm is mine. My enemy is dead.
But as I signal for my car, the victory feels like lead in my stomach. I think of the way Sloane looked when she signed that indefinite contract. I think of the "Judas" look in her eyes—the way she looked at me like I was the devil himself.
I told her I didn't want a slave. I told her I wanted a peer. But looking at the black towers of Wall Street, I realize I'm a liar. I have broken her so completely that she has no choice but to stay. I didn't give her a partner; I gave her a life sentence.
I get into the car. "Back to the office," I tell the driver, my voice low and dangerous.
"Sir? You have a dinner with the IMF at eight."
"Cancel it," I say, my eyes fixed on the sixty-first floor. "I have a briefing with my proxy. And this one is going to take all night."