Chapter 2 - The Stain of Rot
The doors to the executive boardroom were made of heavy, frosted glass. It was 9:58 AM. I didn’t go to the restroom. I didn’t attempt to dab away the green sludge. I didn’t even shake the ice from my shoes.
I pushed the heavy doors open and walked in.
Twelve pairs of eyes snapped toward me. The chatter died instantly. Martin Hale, the Chairman of the Board, paused with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth.
I was a sight from a nightmare. My beige dress was ruined, plastered to my skin by a massive, dark green stain that smelled aggressively of earthy tea and sugar. I left a faint, wet footprint with every step I took toward the head of the long mahogany table.
Julian, who had taken a different elevator, rushed into the room a second later. He saw me standing there and nearly choked.
“Evelyn!” Julian hissed, his voice a frantic whisper. “I told you to get out of here! What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”
I ignored him. I placed my hands flat on the polished wood of the table, leaning forward to look Martin Hale dead in the eye.
“Gentlemen,” I said, my voice steady, betraying none of the freezing cold seeping into my bones. “Good morning.”
“Evelyn,” Martin said slowly, his eyes darting to the green mess. “We were just about to announce… are you quite alright?”
“I am perfectly fine, Martin,” I said, projecting my voice so it bounced off the glass walls. “But Vance Global is not. I want you all to take a very good look at me.”
Julian stepped forward, his face flushed with panic. “Martin, my wife is clearly unwell. A minor altercation downstairs has left her emotionally compromised. Let me escort her out.”
“Sit down, Julian,” Martin snapped. He looked back at me. “Explain, Evelyn.”
“This stain,” I said, gesturing to my ruined dress, “is how the Office of the President treats employees they deem beneath them. Your executive secretary, Julian, just threw a beverage on me because I dared to step into an elevator she claimed was reserved for ‘superiors’. I was told interns and staff must walk up five flights of stairs every day because they are unworthy of the machinery.”
A murmur of shock rippled through the older board members.
“If Julian Vance allows and encourages a culture this toxic, this rotten, right outside his own office door,” I continued, my voice rising, “what exactly do you think he is allowing in the shadows of our financial ledgers?”
Julian slammed his hand on the table. “That is an outrageous accusation based on a misunderstanding with a secretary!”
“Is it?” I challenged, turning my furious gaze on him. “I am stepping into the role of CEO effective immediately. And my first official directive, before I even change my clothes, is an immediate, unannounced, forensic audit of the President’s office. I want every vendor contract, every expense report, and every executive badge swipe from the last five years preserved. Now.”
The room erupted. Julian looked as though I had just stabbed him in the chest.
“You can’t do that!” he shouted.
“I am the CEO, Julian,” I said, the title tasting like sweet vengeance on my tongue. “I just did.”
By noon, I was in my new corner office, wearing a sharp, tailored black suit I had my assistant buy from a boutique down the street. The beige dress was in a trash bag.
At 12:15 PM, the lead forensic auditor knocked on my door. He looked pale.
“Ms. Vance,” he said, handing me a thick file. “We bypassed standard procedure as you asked. We looked at the immediate cash flows from the President’s discretionary fund.”
“And?”
“Nine consulting vendors have received eighteen point four million dollars over the last four years. All approved directly by your husband.”
I flipped open the file. “Are the vendors legitimate?”
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“No,” the auditor said grimly. “They are shell companies. And four of them are registered to addresses associated with his executive secretary. Miss Thorne.”
My blood ran cold. The watch wasn’t a gift for a mistress. It was a payoff to an accomplice.
