Chapter 1 - THE CHAIRMAN’S SEAT
At 7:56 the next morning, Damian Cross stepped out of a black Bentley and walked into the headquarters of Cross Meridian Resort Group as though the previous night had been nothing more than an inconvenience.
He had changed into a charcoal suit.
His hair was perfect.
His expression was cold.
Behind him came Sabrina Vale, wearing cream trousers, a silk blouse, and the same emerald necklace she had worn when I was thrown into the rain.
My grandmother’s necklace.
Damian had received four calls from his attorney telling him to come alone.
He ignored every one of them.
That was Damian.
Warnings only mattered when they came from someone he considered more powerful than himself.
For nine years, he had considered almost no one more powerful.
The headquarters occupied the top nine floors of a forty-eight-story tower overlooking Manhattan.
Damian had personally chosen the building.
He liked telling reporters that he had bought it during “the darkest year of the company.”
He had not.
My father’s holding company had purchased the tower.
Damian’s company leased the floors for one dollar a year.
He had apparently never read that agreement either.
The receptionist stood when Damian approached.
“Good morning, Mr. Cross.”
“Morning.”
He moved toward the private elevators.
The scanner flashed red.
Damian stopped.
He tried again.
Red.
His mouth tightened.
“Reset it.”
The receptionist looked uncomfortable.
“I don’t have authorization.”
“You don’t need authorization.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Damian slowly turned toward her.
“I own this building.”
A familiar voice came from behind him.
“No, you don’t.”
My father crossed the marble lobby.
Richard Whitmore was sixty-seven.
Silver-haired.
Six-foot-two.
Never rushed.
Never shouted.
He had the unsettling habit of making powerful men lower their voices without asking them to.
Damian stared at him.
“Richard.”
My father stopped several feet away.
“You were instructed to attend the meeting alone.”
Sabrina gave him a polished smile.
“I’m advising Damian.”
My father looked at her necklace.
His face changed.
Barely.
But I knew him.
“Where did you get that?”
Sabrina touched the emerald.
“Damian gave it to me.”
My father’s eyes moved to Damian.
“That belonged to my mother.”
Damian shrugged.
“Claire abandoned it.”
“No.”
My father’s voice remained quiet.
“You stole it.”
People in the lobby went completely still.
Damian laughed once.
“Are we really doing this?”
“Yes.”
My father stepped toward the elevator.
“And you’re already late.”
This time the doors opened for him.
They opened for Sabrina.
They opened for Damian.
Because my father wanted them upstairs.
That was the only reason.
The boardroom sat on the forty-seventh floor.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city.
Twelve leather chairs surrounded a black walnut table.
Damian pushed open the doors at 8:04.
Then he stopped.
I was sitting at the head of the table.
Not beside my father.
Not somewhere near the legal team.
At the head.
In the chairman’s seat.
I had changed out of my ruined dress.
I wore a navy suit.
My wet hair from the night before had been cut to my shoulders before sunrise.
It was something I had thought about doing for years.
For some reason, that morning felt right.
Damian stared at me.
“What the hell is this?”
I closed the folder in front of me.
“Good morning.”
He looked around.
The CFO was there.
General counsel.
Regional presidents.
Three independent directors.
Two representatives from Whitmore Capital.
Our outside auditors.
And a woman Damian clearly did not recognize.
She sat beside me.
Federal prosecutor turned corporate investigator, Rebecca Sloan.
My father took the seat to my right.
Damian laughed.
It sounded forced.
“Cute.”
Nobody responded.
He pulled out a chair.
Sabrina moved to sit beside him.
General counsel stopped her.
“Ms. Vale isn’t authorized to attend.”
Damian glared at him.
“She is now.”
“No.”
I spoke calmly.
“She isn’t.”
His eyes snapped to me.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
I opened another folder.
“Actually, Damian, that is the purpose of this meeting.”
I pushed a document across the table.
He didn’t touch it.
“What is it?”
“Your employment agreement.”
“I don’t have an employment agreement.”
“You do.”
“I founded this company.”
“No.”
I looked directly at him.
“You founded a management company called Cross Hospitality Ventures.”
His face hardened.
I continued.
“That company failed eleven months later.”
Nobody moved.
“The first Meridian resort was purchased by Whitmore Land Holdings.”
Another document slid across the table.
“The trademarks were held by Meridian IP Partners.”
Another.
“The development capital came from Hawthorne Family Trust.”
Another.
“The hotel properties themselves are owned by separate asset companies.”
Another.
“The private aviation division belongs to Whitmore Global Transit.”
Another.
“The yacht division is leased.”
Another.
“The Manhattan headquarters is leased.”
Another.
“And sixty-eight percent of the voting rights in Cross Meridian Holdings are controlled by trusts for which I am the primary beneficial holder.”
Damian stared at the papers.
“You’re lying.”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
The CFO lowered his eyes.
Damian looked at him.
“Marcus?”
Marcus Dean had worked for us for seven years.
He swallowed.
“It’s accurate.”
Damian shot to his feet.
“You knew?”
Marcus said nothing.
“You all knew?”
One of the directors answered.
“We knew the ownership structure.”
“And nobody thought to tell me?”
General counsel leaned forward.
“You signed acknowledgments annually.”
Damian stared at him.
Then at me.
“You buried it.”
“I structured it.”
“For what?”
“To protect the assets.”
“From whom?”
I held his gaze.
“You.”
His face went completely still.
Sabrina whispered,
“Damian.”
He ignored her.
I opened the final document.
“As of 12:01 this morning, your authority as chief executive officer was suspended pending an internal investigation.”
He laughed.
“You can’t suspend the founder.”
“The board voted seven to two.”
“Who voted against me?”
I almost smiled.
“Seven voted to suspend you.”
His face changed when he understood.
Only two had supported him.
“Until the investigation is complete,” I continued, “you are prohibited from entering company offices without written permission.”
“You can’t remove me from my own company.”
“My company.”
The words escaped me before I could soften them.
Maybe I did not want to soften them.
Damian leaned both hands on the table.
“This is because of last night?”
“No.”
I looked at Sabrina’s emerald necklace.
“Last night simply convinced me to stop preventing what was already coming.”
That caught him.
His anger faded for one second.
“What was already coming?”
Rebecca Sloan finally spoke.
“Mr. Cross, there are financial irregularities involving eleven subsidiaries, six vendor contracts, and approximately forty-three million dollars.”
Damian turned toward her.
“Who are you?”
“Someone you should probably speak to through counsel.”
Sabrina suddenly stopped touching the necklace.
I watched her.
Only for a second.
But it was enough.
Fear.
Not surprise.
Fear.
Rebecca saw it too.
My father leaned back.
Damian looked at Sabrina.
Then at me.
“What are you accusing me of?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything.”
I folded my hands.
“Yet.”
A knock came at the boardroom doors.
Two security officers entered.
The same two men who had escorted me into the rain.
Their faces were pale.
One approached Damian.
“Mr. Cross, we’ve been instructed to collect your company credentials.”
Damian stared at him.
“You put your hands on me, you’re fired.”
The guard looked at me.
I nodded.
“Take the badge.”
Damian pulled it from his jacket and threw it onto the table.
“You think this makes you powerful?”
“No.”
I looked around the room.
“I think ownership makes me responsible.”
He leaned toward me.
“This company dies without me.”
My father answered.
“We’re about to find out.”
Damian walked toward the doors.
Sabrina followed.
“Ms. Vale.”
I stopped her.
She turned.
“The necklace.”
Her fingers closed around the emerald.
“It was a gift.”
“It was stolen property.”
Damian laughed bitterly.
“Call the police, Claire.”
Rebecca Sloan placed her pen on the table.
“That can be arranged.”
Sabrina’s face drained of color.
Slowly, she unclasped the necklace.
She placed it on the table.
I watched her leave.
Damian stopped at the door.
“You want war?”
I looked at the documents he had refused to read.
“No, Damian.”
I picked up my grandmother’s necklace.
“You started one.”
The doors closed behind him.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Rebecca slid a photograph toward me.
A security image.
Sabrina.
Inside a private records room.
Three months earlier.
At 2:17 in the morning.
She was not alone.
The man beside her made my blood run cold.
Because I knew him.
And he was the one person my father had sworn could never discover how the Whitmore trusts were structured.
My uncle.
May you like
Nathan Whitmore.
And suddenly, Damian’s affair looked like the smallest problem we had.
