Chapter 3 - The Boardroom Glass
The glass-walled conference room on the thirty-second floor of the Varric Foundation tower offered a panoramic view of the grey city skyline, but I found myself staring only at the muted red light of my phone on the polished mahogany table.
Across the wide expanse, Arthur Pendelton adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and tapped a black stylus against a printed quarterly projection. The figures on the screen showed a steady three percent growth in our endowment funds, yet the murmurs around the table had nothing to do with philanthropy. They were circling the rumors. For forty-eight hours, whispers had circulated through the financial district about my sudden absence from the downtown galas and the abrupt dismissal of our previous household staff.
"The capital allocation for the Northside medical center requires your signature by five o'clock, Mr. Varric," Arthur said, his voice dry and clipped, carrying the weight of thirty years advising my father. He lowered his stylus and leaned forward, his gaze hardening behind his lenses. "There are also inquiries from the city council regarding the zoning permits for the new administrative wing. They noted your absence at yesterday's luncheon."
"Sign the allocation, Arthur," I murmured, my hand resting flat against the cool wood of the table. My shirt collar felt tight, the stiff cotton chafing against the stubble along my jaw. "And tell the council I'll address the zoning permits tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow morning," Marcus Vance repeated from the far end of the table. Marcus didn't look at the financial projections; he was staring directly at me, a slight, knowing curve to his thin lips. As the foundation's executive vice-president and my most persistent internal rival, Marcus had spent two years positioning himself to absorb my portfolio. "You've been remarkably difficult to reach at the estate, Varric. Security downstairs mentioned a complete turnover of domestic personnel. A new maid brought in through unconventional channels, if the reports are accurate."
The room grew very still. The low hum of the centralized air conditioning seemed to drop an octave. I kept my breathing measured, resisting the urge to check the screen of my phone.
"My domestic arrangements are my own concern, Marcus," I said, my tone flat, stripped of any warmth. "The foundation's capital remains secure. Let's keep our focus on the endowment."
"Of course," Marcus replied smoothly, though his eyes gleamed with opportunistic satisfaction. "We only worry when the foundation's primary trustee appears distracted by... domestic anomalies. Especially given the child."
A sharp, hot spike of adrenaline flared beneath my ribs. I started to lean forward, my fingers curling into a fist against the mahogany, when the phone on the table lit up. A single silent notification flashed across the dark glass.
I picked it up immediately, ignoring Arthur's disapproving frown. The message was brief, sent from the estate's secure line: He is asleep. Rest easy.
The tension in my shoulders eased by a fraction. I looked up at Arthur and Marcus, the fog of anxiety clearing just enough for me to see the trap they were building around me. They wanted a reaction; they wanted me to lose my temper, to prove myself unfit to steer the multi-million-dollar trust.
"The meeting is adjourned for a ten-minute recess," I said, standing up abruptly and buttoning my suit jacket over my unbuttoned shirt.
"Varric, we haven't voted on the Northside allocation," Arthur protested, standing as well.
May you like
"Then review it again," I said, already walking toward the heavy frosted glass doors. "I have an emergency at home."
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