Chapter 14 - The Anniversary
-14-
June 1st.
The three-year anniversary of the day I set my brass keys on the side table, walked out into the freezing Chicago rain, and deleted every automatic transfer from my banking app.
I was sitting in my corner office on the forty-fifth floor of Vance Global Holdings, now officially the youngest female board member in the history of the firm. My desk was clean—no clutter, no framed family portraits of people who wished me ill, just a minimalist acrylic block displaying my corporate philosophy: Clarity, Execution, Sovereignty.
Marcus Vance walked into my office without knocking, holding two crystal tumblers and a bottle of twenty-year-old single malt Scotch.
“Got a minute for a pour, Madam Director?” he asked, a knowing grin playing around the corners of his mouth.
“For Scotch, I always have a minute, Marcus,” I said, leaning back in my executive chair and spinning my pen between my fingers.
He poured two fingers into each glass, handed me one, and raised his tumbler in a silent toast.
“Three years today,” Marcus said quietly, leaning against the edge of my desk.
I paused, looking down at the amber amber liquid catching the afternoon sunlight. “Word travels fast in executive suites, doesn't it?”
“Word travels fast when you’ve got private investigators doing background checks on all new board nominees,” Marcus chuckled, taking a sip of his whiskey. “When I read the property file for 442 Elm Street—how you legally foreclosed on your own childhood home just to clean out the rot and set up a corporate firewall—I knew you weren't just a good asset manager. You were a master tactician.”
“I didn't do it to be a tactician, Marcus,” I said softly, swirling the Scotch in my glass. “I did it because I was tired of being a doormat. Some people think kindness means letting people walk all over you until there’s nothing left of your spine. I learned the hard way that true kindness requires boundaries. If you don't lock your front door, you’re not hospitable—you’re just an invitation to burglars.”
Marcus nodded slowly, his expression turning serious.
“And your mother? And your brother?”
“My mother is in an assisted living facility in Evanston, eating bland food and watching game shows. My brother is cycling through the Cook County jail system after trying to steal a box of doughnuts.” I took a slow sip of the Scotch, the smoky burn warming my chest. “They have my phone number blocked in their minds, and I have their existence blocked in mine. It’s a clean trade.”
“No regrets?” Marcus asked, his eyes searching my face for even a flicker of maternal guilt or sisterly remorse.
I looked past him, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, out at the majestic sprawl of London stretching toward the horizon under a brilliant, cloudless summer sky.
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“Regrets?” I repeated, letting out a calm, genuine laugh. “Marcus, for the first thirty-four years of my life, I lived in a cage I didn't build, paying rent on a life I didn't choose. Now? I own the building.”
We clicked our glasses together—a sharp, clear ring that echoed softly in the pristine silence of the forty-fifth floor.
