Chapter 2 - Wolves in the ParlorThe room seemed to shrink. The air grew impossibly thin.
Richard. My brother, whom I had bailed out of three failed business ventures, whose mortgage I had subsidized, and who held a non-executive seat on the board of Caldwell Medical Distribution.
Why would Richard be stealing eleven weeks of wages from my head housekeeper?
Before I could process the terrifying implication of what I was looking at, the heavy double doors of my study creaked open.
Martin Pierce walked in.
He was holding a silver tray with a crystal decanter of scotch and two glasses. He paused when he saw Helen and Grace standing in the middle of the room. A subtle flicker of annoyance crossed his face before he smoothed it back into his signature professional calm.
"Mr. Caldwell," Martin said smoothly, stepping inside. "I didn't realize you were holding a meeting in here. Helen, shouldn't you be overseeing the dinner setup in the East Dining Room?"
I stared at Martin. "Where is the payroll money, Martin?"
Martin didn't flinch. He placed the silver tray on the edge of the mahogany desk with deliberate slowness. "I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Eleven weeks," I said, my voice dangerously low. "Helen hasn't been paid in eleven weeks. Yet my bank records show the funds leaving my account every two weeks. Care to explain why the routing numbers lead back to a company owned by my brother?"
Martin’s demeanor changed instantly. The deferential posture disappeared. He straightened his shoulders, folded his arms, and pulled out his smartphone from his breast pocket.
"I suggest you don't raise your voice, Andrew," Martin said, dropping the 'Mr. Caldwell' entirely.
My eyes narrowed. "What did you just call me?"
"You've been so focused on your global expansion, your hospital networks, and your corporate legacy that you haven't looked at your household operational accounts in three years," Martin said, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Did you really think I was acting alone?"
Helen pulled Grace behind her back, taking a cautious step toward the door.
"Stay right there, Helen," Martin snapped, pointing a finger at her. "You don't get to leave until we settle this."
"Martin, you are fired," I said, reaching for the landline on my desk to call my head of security, Marcus. "Leave the premises before I have you thrown out in handcuffs."
Martin chuckled—a cold, hollow sound. "Call Marcus. Go ahead. Try it."
I picked up the phone and dialed Marcus's internal extension.
It rang four times. Then a voice answered.
"He's not coming up, Andrew," the voice on the line said.
It wasn't Marcus.
It was Richard.
"Richard?" My knuckles turned white against the receiver. "What is going on?"
"Look out your window, brother," Richard said over the line.
May you like
I stepped toward the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that overlooked the grand driveway. Down below, parked right in front of the marble fountain, were three sleek black SUVs. Marcus, my chief of security, was standing beside them, standing at attention while two men in charcoal suits unloaded dark leather briefcases.
"You've been run ragged by the board, Andrew," Richard’s voice vibrated through the earpiece. "You're slipping. You let a ten-year-old child breach your security and march into your private hall. You're losing your grip on this empire. And tonight, the board is taking action."
