Chapter 5 - The Collapse of the Dynasty
The news of the federal indictments against Jackson and Richard Vance hit the Los Angeles real estate community like a nuclear strike.
By Tuesday afternoon, three major financial news outlets were running front-page headlines detailing the sudden collapse of Vance Global Holdings. The story had everything: a wealthy Beverly Hills family, offshore bank accounts, forged deeds, a bloody domestic assault at a dinner table, and a brilliant female architect who had turned the tables on her abusers overnight.
I spent Tuesday inside the glass-walled conference room of my architectural firm, sitting at the head of a mahogany table surrounded by my senior partners and PR team.
On the wall screen, live news footage showed federal agents carrying dozens of banker boxes and computer servers out of Richard Vance’s corporate headquarters in downtown LA.
“The board of directors for the California Architecture Association just issued a public statement,” my chief communications officer reported, showing me a tablet. “They’ve completely severed all ties with the Vance family’s developments and publicly endorsed your firm’s integrity.”
“Good,” I said, checking my phone. “Where is Grace?”
“Grace Vance spent the morning trying to access her private trust accounts at Chase Bank,” Marcus said, walking into the conference room with a fresh espresso. “She was informed by the branch manager that her credit cards have been canceled and her personal liquidity is frozen under the federal asset forfeiture order.”
I leaned back in my leather chair. “Where is she staying?”
“Her defense attorney paid for a cheap hotel room near the airport after she was evicted from the Beverly Hills estate three hours ago,” Marcus grinned. “The federal marshals locked the gates at noon.”
A soft knock came at the conference room door. My assistant peeked her head inside, looking hesitant.
“Chloe? There’s... someone in the lobby. She insists on speaking to you. She’s causing a scene with security.”
I looked at Marcus, then stood up. “Let’s go see Grace.”
When I stepped out into the grand marble lobby of my firm’s skyscraper, Grace Vance was standing near the reception desk.
The pristine ivory silk and Chanel suits were gone. She wore a rumpled cardigan, her hair unwashed and sticking out at odd angles, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot from two days of nonstop crying. The arrogant, aristocratic matriarch who had calmly sliced roast lamb while her son bled me on her tablecloth was completely destroyed.
Security guards were standing on either side of her, keeping her five feet away from the glass doors.
When she saw me walk out, she didn't scream. She didn't launch insults. She collapsed to her knees right there on the polished granite floor, her hands clasped together in a desperate, pathetic gesture of supplication.
“Chloe... please!” Grace sobbed, her voice breaking into ragged gasps. “Please, I’m begging you! Talk to the prosecutor! Tell them Richard didn't know about the forged deeds! Jackson made a mistake, he’s just a boy! They’re going to send my husband and my son to federal prison for years!”
I walked slowly across the lobby, stopping two feet away from where she knelt on the floor. I looked down at her, my posture straight, the small white bandage on my temple serving as a permanent badge of the night she tried to steal my life.
“Your son is thirty-four years old, Grace,” I said softly, my voice carrying across the silent lobby. “He is not a boy. He is a felon who thought he could use violence to cover up your family’s crimes.”
“We’ll give you the Minneapolis apartment back!” Grace wept, tears washing dark mascara tracks down her pale cheeks. “We’ll give you everything! Just unfreeze my personal allowance! I have no money for food! I have no place to sleep tonight!”
I bent down slightly, bringing my face close to hers, speaking in a whisper meant only for her ears.
“Remember what you told me at dinner, Grace? When you said I was a useless woman whose only job was to serve your family?”
Grace shuddered, her mouth trembling violently.
“My apartment was never yours to give back,” I whispered cold and sharp. “And as for your living expenses... you’re going to have to learn how to survive without my twelve hundred dollars a month.”
I straightened up and looked at the head of security.
May you like
“Escort this woman off the premises. If she sets foot in this building again, have her arrested for criminal trespassing.”
Grace shrieked as the security officers gently but firmly pulled her off the floor and led her out into the street, her cries echoing off the glass walls until the heavy revolving doors shut behind her.
