Chapter 10: The Interrogation of Arthur
Arthur Vance scoffed loudly, running a hand through his thinning gray hair as he glared at Clara and Julian. “Under control? Beatrice, this looks like a college dorm room during finals week! We have three city council members, the primary tech investors from Silicon Valley, and the regional director of philanthropy walking through the north wing right now. If any of them catch a glimpse of this cheap processed garbage in our facility, our stock ratings will take a direct hit!”
“No investor is walking through this corridor, Arthur,” Beatrice replied, her voice dropping into a cold, authoritative register that brooked no further argument. She stood her ground, her heavy silver snowflake brooches catching the light as she shielded the display with her body. “The route is strictly secured for VIP traffic through the main gallery.”
“That’s not the point!” Arthur snapped, his face flushing a deep, angry red. He turned his hostile gaze directly onto Clara, his eyes narrowing with thinly veiled contempt. “And who authorized this amateur hour catastrophe? Let me guess—the little blonde girlfriend who thinks she can run a multi-million-dollar foundation on retail coupons and instant soup?”
Julian stepped forward instantly, inserting himself between his uncle and Clara. The dark blue velvet of his tuxedo jacket rustled as he squared his shoulders, his voice hard and level. “Watch your tone, Uncle Arthur. Clara solved a critical supply chain failure that your precious high-end caterers caused when their delivery trucks broke down. While you were sitting in the VIP lounge sipping scotch, she figured out how to keep forty staging workers fed and on the clock.”
Arthur let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. “Saved the day with twenty-cent ramen? Are you hearing yourself, Julian? You’re defending this pathetic excuse for hospitality because you’re wrapped around her finger. Beatrice, tell me you aren’t letting these kids turn your premier charity event into a joke.”
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All eyes in the corridor turned to Beatrice. The tension was palpable; a single word from the matriarch could validate Arthur’s fury and result in Clara and Julian being thrown out of the building in disgrace. Julian held his breath, casting a quick, protective glance at Clara, who remained remarkably calm, her arms resting lightly at her sides as she met Arthur’s arrogant glare with quiet confidence.
Beatrice stood silently for a long, agonizing moment. She looked at her brother’s red, agitated face, then at her son’s defiant stance, and finally at Clara’s unshakable poise. The memories of the past hour—the exhausted staging crew, the quiet gratitude in Marcus’s eyes, and the undeniable operational reality—flashed through her mind. She adjusted her purple blazer, lifting her chin with regal authority.
