Chapter 3 - The Audit Begins
The twenty minutes ticked by like grains of coarse sand slipping through an hourglass, each second amplifying the oppressive tension trapped within the four walls of the dining room. Arthur had collapsed heavily into one of the high-backed velvet chairs, his tie loosened, his hands trembling as he stared blankly at the ruined table. The spilled red wine had pooled near the base of a silver candlestick, resembling a puddle of fresh blood. Clara remained standing, her white button-down shirt stark against the dark furniture, the cut on her temple now clotting into a dark, angry scab.
Outside, the crunch of heavy tires rolling up the estate’s long gravel driveway shattered the unnatural silence. Headlights swept across the tall arched windows, casting sweeping, distorted shadows across the portraits of Arthur’s ancestors lining the mahogany-paneled walls.
Arthur bolted upright, his eyes darting toward the entryway. "That’s early. They couldn't possibly have mobilized a forensic team this fast."
"My father doesn't mobilize teams, Arthur. He maintains them," Clara said, her voice devoid of emotion as she walked calmly toward the French doors leading out to the terrace, letting the cool night air wash over her face.
The heavy front doors of the mansion echoed open with a sharp bang, followed by the steady, unhurried cadence of leather-soled shoes marching across the marble foyer. Two men in charcoal-gray suits walked into the dining room without knocking. They didn't look at Arthur, nor did they acknowledge the ruined table or the spilled wine. Their eyes were fixed entirely on Clara. The taller of the two, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a sharp, rectangular jawline, nodded respectfully.
"Miss Vance," the man said, his voice flat and professional. "Mr. Vance sends his regards. We have secured the perimeter, and the primary servers in the basement office have already been physically locked out from remote access."
Arthur sprang to his feet, his chair screeching against the hardwood floor. "You can't do that! This is a private residence! You have no legal jurisdiction to seize company hardware from a domestic property!"
The second man turned his cold gaze toward Arthur, stepping forward until he was well within Arthur's personal space. "Mr. Sterling, the servers in your basement are registered under Vance Global’s subsidiary logistics account. Under corporate bylaws signed by you on March twelfth, any hardware utilizing corporate IP is subject to immediate physical audit upon suspicion of capital misappropriation."
Arthur swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. He looked from the investigators to Clara, who was watching him with a detached, clinical curiosity.
"You planned this," Arthur whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "You didn't just stumble onto the ledger numbers last night. You set the trap."
Clara turned away from the terrace view, stepping back inside the warm, brightly lit room. She raised her phone once more, tapping the screen to put the call on speaker, and placed it flat on the center of the white tablecloth, right beside the stained wine glasses.
"Dad," Clara said clearly into the empty space of the room. "They're here."
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The speaker crackled with static before Thomas Vance’s low, commanding voice filled the room, carrying a chill that rivaled the winter wind outside. "Arthur. Sit down. We need to discuss the transfer of your assets before the federal marshals arrive."
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