Chapter 8 - The Trading Bell
At 9:30 AM, the opening bell of the New York Stock Exchange rang, its sharp, metallic echo signaling the start of the trading day.
On the central monitor of my office, Vale International's ticker symbol—VALE—appeared on the screen.
Its previous closing price was $48.50 per share.
Within four seconds of the opening bell, the stock didn't slide; it plummeted off a cliff.
9:30:01 AM — $32.00 9:30:05 AM — $18.50 9:30:12 AM — $9.20
Trading was automatically halted three times within the first fifteen minutes due to extreme volatility. Panic swept through the floor of the stock exchange as institutional investors rushed to dump millions of shares of Vale International at any price they could get.
By 10:15 AM, the stock was trading at $2.15 per share—a ninety-five percent destruction of market capitalization in less than forty-five minutes. Over two billion dollars in phantom wealth had evaporated into thin air.
My desk phone rang. It was an internal line from downstairs security.
"Chairwoman Hart," the security guard reported, his voice tight. "We have a situation in the main lobby on the ground floor. Richard Vale is here. He is demanding to see you. He doesn't have an appointment, and he is refusing to leave."
I paused, looking at the crashing stock ticker on my screen.
"Send him up," I said softly.
"Ma'am?" the guard sounded surprised. "Are you sure? He appears extremely distressed."
"Send him up, Frank. Accompanied by two building security officers."
Ten minutes later, the private elevator doors outside my office slid open with a soft, mechanical hiss.
Richard Vale walked into my office.
He looked like a ghost of the man who had hosted a golden gala fourteen hours earlier. His suit was wrinkled, his eyes were bloodshot and sunken, and his hands trembled violently as he leaned against the doorframe for support. The two tall building security guards stood closely behind him, ensuring he posed no physical threat.
May you like
He walked slowly across the vast expanse of my office, stopping five feet from my desk. He didn't look at the magnificent view of Manhattan behind me. He didn't look at the sleek glass furniture. He looked only at my face.
"Evelyn..." Richard whispered, his voice broken, raspy, and completely stripped of life. "It's gone. Everything is gone."
