Chapter 4 - The Sound of Thunder
Randolph froze. His hands, hovering over his table, began to tremble almost imperceptibly.
"Vance?" Randolph stammered, his eyes darting frantically from the towering titan walking down the center aisle to me, standing silently with a bruised cheek. "No... no, that’s impossible. Her father is a mechanic from upstate. He runs an auto repair garage!"
Thomas Vance didn't look at Randolph. He didn't look at the five hundred frozen guests who parted before him like the Red Sea. He didn't acknowledge Senator Bradley or the trembling investment bankers.
His eyes were locked entirely on me.
He walked straight past Prescott, brushing his shoulder with such force that Prescott spun half an inch off balance. Thomas stopped three feet in front of me.
The terrifying, imperial mask on his face cracked, replaced by the profound, aching gentleness of a father.
He looked at my split lip. He looked at the faint red handprint beginning to darken across my pale cheekbone.
His jaw tightened. A muscle twitched beside his temple.
"Does it hurt, sweetheart?" he asked softly.
"Only when I smile, Dad," I replied, my voice carrying a faint, wry whisper.
Thomas pulled a crisp, white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently, tenderly dabbed the tiny bead of blood from my lip.
"You stayed too long, Clara," he murmured, his voice heavy with regret. "I told you five years ago these scavengers weren't worthy of your breath."
"I had to see it through, Dad," I said quietly. "I had to make sure the evidence was airtight."
"It’s airtight," Thomas said. He turned around slowly, rotating on his heel to face the ballroom.
When he turned, the air left the room entirely.
Thomas Vance didn't raise his voice. He didn't shout. He possessed the kind of power that made mountains move simply by speaking in complete, measured sentences.
"Prescott," Thomas said.
Prescott flinched. The bravado, the arrogant swagger, the drunken smirk—all of it had evaporated, replaced by a cold, greasy sheen of sweat across his forehead.
"M-Mr. Vance," Prescott stuttered, holding his wrenched wrist against his chest. "There’s... there’s been a misunderstanding. Clara was being hysterical. We had a domestic disagreement—it’s a private family matter—"
"A domestic disagreement?" Thomas interrupted, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of Prescott's neck stand up. "You struck my daughter in a room filled with five hundred witnesses."
Randolph suddenly found his feet, rushing down from the head table, his hands outstretched in a placating, oily gesture.
"Thomas! Please, let’s be reasonable," Randolph pleaded, his voice cracking slightly. "Our sons and daughters make mistakes. Prescott was out of line—I will discipline him myself! But we are business partners, Thomas! Prescott Capital and Vance Global have deep ties—we are announcing our joint merger tonight! The press is right outside!"
Thomas Vance looked at Randolph as if he were a cockroach crawling across an expensive linen tablecloth.
"We are not partners, Randolph," Thomas said evenly. "We have never been partners. You owe my firm eight hundred and forty million dollars, due on the thirty-first of this month."
Randolph swallowed hard, blood rushing to his ears. "Yes, but our credit facility—you agreed to extend the rollover! Your auditor, V. C. Sterling, assured us the restructuring was approved!"
I took a step forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with my father.
May you like
"No, Randolph," I said clearly. "I didn't approve it."
***
