Chapter 8: The Board Room
Reginald Vance kept his office on the forty-fourth floor of a building he had owned since 1987.
It was not a showy room.
No art that announced itself.
No view positioned for intimidation.
Just a large desk, two chairs across from it, and windows that looked north toward a part of the city that had been built and rebuilt so many times it had stopped remembering what it used to be.
Flynn was already there when Phoebe and I arrived.
He saw me walk in and something crossed his face — not surprise, but a rapid recalculation.
He had not known I would be here.
He looked at his father.
Reginald was standing at the window.
He didn't turn around immediately.
"Sit down," he said.
To both of us.
Flynn sat on one side of the table.
I sat on the other.
Phoebe took the chair beside me.
Flynn's attorney, a man named Carver I had met twice at company functions, sat beside Flynn with a leather portfolio open in front of him.
Reginald turned from the window and took his place at the head of the table.
"I'm going to say several things," he said.
"I'd like everyone to let me finish before responding."
No one spoke.
"Flynn." He looked at his son directly.
"I have reviewed the documents provided by Dana Reyes.
I have reviewed the attorney correspondence regarding the pre-emptive filing strategy.
I have reviewed the transfer records going back to before your marriage." He paused.
"And I listened to the recording of your call with Mabel yesterday morning."
Flynn's jaw tightened.
"That recording was obtained without—"
"Flynn." Reginald's voice didn't rise.
It didn't need to.
"I asked you to let me finish."
Flynn closed his mouth.
"You have made three categories of error," Reginald said.
"The first is personal.
You conducted a years-long deception against your wife.
That is a moral failure, and it is yours to carry.
I won't speak to it further." He folded his hands on the table.
"The second is legal.
You directed company resources — through Dana, through the shell structure — toward personal expenditures.
That is not a personal matter.
That is a liability for Vance Capital and for every shareholder, including me."
Flynn's attorney wrote something in his portfolio.
"The third," Reginald said, "is strategic.
You threatened a witness on a recorded line.
You told your wife you had people at the filing office — which, whether true or not, is now part of a legal record.
And you did all of this while the trust transfer window was still open, which means you spent the time you had left making your position worse."
The room was very quiet.
"I have spoken with the board," Reginald said.
"Informally, last night.
The consensus is that your continued presence as CEO creates an unacceptable legal and reputational exposure for the company."
Flynn went white.
"You can't remove me.
I have—"
"You have 34% of your shares inside a trust you no longer control," Reginald said.
"The board doesn't need your votes for this.
They need mine." He looked at his son steadily.
"And I have given them."
The silence that followed was the kind that has weight.
Flynn turned to Carver.
Carver was looking at the table.
"You knew about this," Flynn said to him.
"Mr.
Vance," Carver said carefully, "I advised you three weeks ago that the witness exposure was a significant risk—"
"Did you know about this meeting?"
Carver didn't answer.
Flynn stood up.
His chair pushed back hard.
He looked at his father, and what I saw in his face then was not the CEO, not the husband, not the man who had walked into my delivery room.
It was something younger and rawer — a son who had believed, until this moment, that his father would ultimately protect him.
"You're doing this for her," Flynn said.
"I'm doing this for the company," Reginald said.
"And for your daughter.
And, if I'm honest, for the version of you that existed before you decided that what you wanted was more important than what was right." He paused.
"I don't recognize the man who walked into that hospital room.
I'd like to believe I didn't raise him."
Flynn's mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
He looked at me — one long, unreadable look — and then he picked up his phone from the table and walked out.
Carver gathered his portfolio and followed without making eye contact with anyone.
The door closed.
Reginald looked at me across the table.
"The board will formalize the removal at Friday's meeting," he said.
"In the interim, I'll be resuming executive authority.
Temporarily." He paused.
"I'd like to propose a restructured trust agreement.
One that names you as trustee for your daughter's interest and establishes an independent co-trustee for the company assets.
Neutral party.
Mutually agreed."
"I'll review whatever Phoebe reviews," I said.
He nodded.
"That's fair." He looked at his hands for a moment.
"I owe you an apology, Mabel.
I suspected things I should have acted on.
I chose the easier path.
I won't pretend otherwise."
I looked at him across the table.
The man who had built the empire.
The man who had just removed his own son from it.
"I appreciate that," I said.
And I meant it — not warmly, not fully, but genuinely.
It was something.
It was more than Flynn had managed in four years.
"Your daughter," Reginald said.
"What's her name?"
I hadn't told anyone yet.
Not even Phoebe.
"Clara," I said.
"Clara Mabel Vance."
May you like
He was quiet for a moment.
"That's a good name," he said.
