Chapter 2 - The Conference Room CoupThree miles away, inside the glass-and-steel monolith of Vance Global Logistics, fourteen men and women sat around a polished obsidian table. At the head of the chair sat Spencer Vance, tailored to perfection, a diamond-encrusted watch catching the fluorescent glare.
Before each board member lay a thick gray file stamped CONFIDENTIAL: MENTAL INCOMPETENCE & MEDICAL INTERDICTION.
"The evidence is indisputable," Spencer announced, his voice smooth as oiled silk, carrying the practiced cadence of a man born to command empires. "My adoptive father’s cognitive decline has reached a stage of public liability. Last night, he wandered onto public property half-frozen, muttering incoherently to gate guards. If the press gets hold of this, our harbor contracts will evaporate before the fiscal quarter ends."
A murmuring wave rippled through the room. Old-guard loyalists shifted uncomfortably, but Spencer had spent five years buying their debts, silencing their critics, and positioning his own loyal lieutenants in every key department.
"We invoke Clause 9," Spencer continued, standing up and leaning over the table, his eyes gleaming with suppressed triumph. "By unanimous proxy, management of the Vance estate, shipping lanes, and private security forces transfers immediately to the executive vice president—myself."
Just as Spencer raised his hand to call for the final gavel strike, the double doors at the back of the conference room slammed open.
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It wasn't a board member. It was Gregor, flanked by two guards, dragging a frail, shivering figure in a torn coat—and right behind them, handcuffed with plastic zip-ties, walked a furious twenty-six-year-old waitress with a split lip and murder in her eyes.
Spencer’s hand froze mid-air. The pen slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the obsidian table.
