Chapter 3
Arthur Vance leaned back against the tufted leather of his chair, the warmth of the banquet hall suddenly feeling suffocating. He looked past Eleanor, whose manicured fingers were now digging into the fabric of the tablecloth with enough force to turn her knuckles white, and surveyed the room. Dozens of business associates, politicians, and distant relatives sat watching the drama unfold, their expressions a mixture of morbid curiosity and polite indifference. None of them knew the rot that had infested the Vance family foundation from the inside out.
"Elena," Arthur said softly, his voice steady despite the adrenaline pounding in his veins. "Who else was in the prep room when you found the decanter?"
"No one, Mr. Vance," Elena replied, her tone professional and unwavering. "The catering staff had just finished setting the primary tables. I was checking the inventory logs when I noticed the anomaly. The red stickers aren’t part of our venue protocol. They’re custom adhesive dots, the exact kind used in the corporate executive suite upstairs."
Eleanor let out a sharp, hysterical laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Corporate suite? Anyone can buy office supplies! This girl is running a smear campaign against our family name because she probably wants a payout, or worse, she's an industrial plant from a competitor!"
Arthur ignored the deflection. He had spent forty years building Vance Logistics into an international shipping titan; he knew the difference between a genuine threat and a desperate diversion. He looked closely at Eleanor’s diamond necklace, noticing for the first time that the clasp was slightly askew, as if it had been fastened in a desperate hurry before tonight’s entrance.
"Sit down, Eleanor," Arthur commanded, the authority in his tone silencing her instantly. It was the voice that had brokered billion-dollar mergers and survived hostile corporate takeovers.
Elena slid the smartphone across the crisp linen tablecloth toward Arthur. The screen remained illuminated, displaying the damning photograph of the red-marked wine glass stem. "There is more," Elena murmured, leaning down so only Arthur could hear her words. "The catering logs show that the private reserve bottles were brought up from your personal cellar this afternoon. The only person with the biometric access codes to that cellar is Mrs. Vance."
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The accusation hung in the air, undeniable and sharp. Arthur felt a deep, profound sadness wash over him. He had trusted Eleanor after the tragic passing of his son five years ago, viewing her as the continuation of his legacy. He had signed over shares, granted her executive voting rights, and allowed her to manage the daily operations of the estate. All the while, she had been laying the groundwork for a complete and permanent takeover.
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