Chapter 2 - The Direct Line
Thirty-four floors above the atrium, inside a corner office cloaked in soundproof velvet and restored mahogany, an antique French desk phone vibrated with a single, private frequency.
Evelyn Vance didn't look up immediately from the multi-billion-dollar merger contract she was redlining. At sixty-two, with a razor-sharp silver bob and a tailored gold-thread blazer, Evelyn was the uncontested monarch of Vance Conglomerates. Prime ministers waited three weeks for her callbacks; hedge funds bled out if she shifted her portfolio by two points. Only three individuals possessed that specific digital ringtone. Two of them were dead.
She lifted the receiver. "Talk to me."
"Mom?"
The voice came through shaky, punctuated by the faint hum of a commercial laser printer.
"Elena?" Evelyn straightened, every muscle in her spine locking into iron. "What happened? You aren't supposed to call me during business hours. We agreed on ground rules—you start from the ground up, no family favors."
"Mom," Elena repeated, her voice cracking just enough to rip through the steel armor of Evelyn's composure. "One of your division directors just slapped me in the face."
The office went unnervingly cold. Evelyn didn't raise her voice. She didn't gasp. She closed the gold fountain pen in her hand with a deliberate, lethal click.
"Which floor, sweetheart?"
May you like
"Thirty-three. The atrium bullpen."
"Stay right where you are," Evelyn whispered, standing up from her leather chair. "Don't touch a single sheet of paper."
