Chapter 15 - The Collapse of Vance & Sterling
By Thursday afternoon, Vance & Sterling’s stock price had plummeted by thirty-four percent. Institutional investors were fleeing the firm in droves, terrified of the impending liquidity crunch.
My phone buzzed constantly. This time, it wasn't my father or Nicholas. It was Marcus Vance himself.
His voicemails evolved over the course of forty-eight hours from arrogant demands for a retraction to frantic, sweating pleas for a meeting. “Jenna, please, let’s talk! Name your terms! We can merge our portfolios! Just tell Stewart to back off the short position!”
I didn't answer a single call. I simply forwarded his voicemail logs to our legal team.
On Friday morning, Emmett and I sat side-by-side in a glass-walled conference room overlooking the New York Stock Exchange. Across the long mahogany table sat Marcus Vance, looking like a ghost of his former self—his expensive tie loosened, his hair disheveled, sweat glistening on his forehead.
“You orchestrated this,” Marcus rasped, pointing a shaking finger at me. “You used your platform to intentionally sink my firm out of some petty family vendetta!”
I leaned back in my chair, folding my hands neatly on the table. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.
“Vance & Sterling sank because you built an empire on smoke, mirrors, and inflated valuations, Marcus,” I said coldly. “You thought you could buy me because you assumed women like me—the ones you ignore, dismiss, and hide in the back corners of rooms—are easily manipulated. You were wrong.”
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Emmett leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet tone. “And now, Stewart Technologies is officially exercising its option to acquire your remaining assets for pennies on the dollar. Sign the papers, Marcus, or watch your firm liquidate in bankruptcy court by Monday.”
Marcus stared at the contract, his hands trembling violently. He looked at Emmett, then at me, finally realizing the sheer scale of the monster he had tried to invite into his bed. With a defeated, hollow sigh, he picked up a heavy Montblanc pen and signed his professional death warrant.
