The Ironclad Clause

The Crisis

Julian Vane didn’t look like a man about to lose an empire. He looked like a man annoyed by a fly.

He stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Manhattan office, watching the rain streak the glass like tears he refused to shed.

“They have forty-two percent of the vote, Julian,” his lawyer, Marcus, said from the leather armchair. “By the quarterly meeting, they’ll have fifty-one. They’re calling you a ‘liability.’ A ‘maverick with no anchor.’ They want a CEO with a wife, a dog, and a predictable weekend in the Hamptons.”

Julian turned, his eyes cold. “I’m not buying a dog, Marcus.”

“Then buy a wife,” Marcus countered. “Or you won’t have a desk to sit at by Christmas.”

Julian drew his eyes back to the window, the rain continued to pound on the double pane, similar to the feeling that was ruing in his chest.

“Surely there’s other options out there, Marcus. A wife? Faking my happiness for god knows how long. Until they buy my ‘stability’? This is bullshit and you know it.”

Marcus rolled his eyes at the reluctant act from Julian, until he noticed a slight shift in his mannerisms.

He watched Julian slowly lower into his chair, taking a further glance at the files laid out neatly on his desk.

It was the audit report from the independent firm he’d hired to scrub his accounts for vulnerabilities.

The lead auditor was a woman named Elena Vance. She was brilliant, she was desperate for cash to settle a private legal vendetta, and most importantly, she owed no one anything.

“Get me Elena Vance,” Julian said, his voice a low gravel.

“Julian, are you sure this is a good move for-” with one sharp look, Marcus’ mouth snapped shut, his hands shakily smoothing out his tie.

“Tell her I have a new set of figures for her to look at.”