Chapter 4 - The Audit Of Deceit
Alexander’s face turned an ugly shade of mottled red as he stepped closer, leaning in so that only Marcus Vance, Camila, and I could hear his hushed voice.
“Eleanor, let’s go into my private office and talk about this like rational adults,” he pleaded, his voice cracking under the strain of maintaining his public dignity.
“You’re causing a massive scene in front of our key personnel.”
“Whatever grievances you have about corporate restructuring or administrative protocol, we can settle behind closed doors.”
“This isn't about grievances, Alexander,” I replied, my voice steady, sharp, and perfectly controlled.
“This is about governance, compliance, and fiduciary responsibility.”
I turned my attention squarely to Camila Reyes, whose hands were now trembling violently behind her back.
“Ms. Reyes,” I commanded.
“Bring your corporate laptop, your administrative ledger, and the physical sign-in sheets for the executive floor into the boardroom immediately.”
Camila swallowed hard, her glance darting toward Alexander in a desperate plea for protection.
“Mr. Montalvo... the morning files are still being indexed,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
“I haven't finalized the monthly reconciliation yet.”
Alexander cleared his throat, stepping in front of her defensively.
“Eleanor, that’s unnecessary harassment.”
“Camila is my personal assistant; she reports directly to me as Chairman.”
“Her ledgers are part of the executive office’s discretionary budget, which does not fall under standard line-item review.”
Marcus Vance stepped forward, holding up a manila folder bound with blue ribbon.
“Actually, Alexander, under Section 4 of the revised corporate bylaws signed by the majority shareholders on Thursday, all discretionary executive expenditures exceeding ten thousand dollars are subject to immediate, unannounced internal audit by the Chief Executive Officer.”
“Furthermore,” Marcus added, looking Alexander directly in the eye, “the Chairman no longer holds unilateral sign-off authority on executive compensation, expense reimbursements, or corporate credit line extensions.”
Alexander looked as though he had been slapped across the face.
He had spent months assuming that my quiet work in the Midwest meant I was disconnected from the board’s shifting allegiances.
He had forgotten that my family’s trust controlled forty-two percent of the voting shares, and that the institutional investors had grown weary of his vanity projects and bloated expense accounts.
They hadn't just appointed me CEO to run operations; they had brought me back to clean out the rot he had allowed to fester at the core of the firm.
“Into the boardroom,” I repeated, turning on my heel and walking through the frosted double doors of the executive conference room.
Marcus Vance followed immediately behind me, pulling out a chair at the head of the twenty-seat mahogany conference table.
Alexander hesitated for three agonizing seconds, his jaw clenched so tightly that a vein throbbed on his temple, before storming into the room after me.
Camila had no choice but to follow, clutching her ultra-thin laptop against her chest like a shield.
Behind her, Walter Sterling slipped into the room, accompanied by two junior accountants carrying portable hard-drive scanners.
The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind us, locking out the curious eyes of the staff, though every person on that floor knew an execution was underway.
I sat down at the head of the table—the seat Alexander had occupied uncontested for the past seven years.
Alexander stood at the opposite end, refusing to sit, his knuckles resting on the polished wood.
“Eleanor, you’ve made your point,” he said, attempting to strike a reasonable, paternalistic tone.
“You’re the CEO. Congratulations.”
“We can release the joint press statement at ten o'clock presenting it as a strategic alignment between husband and wife.”
“A power couple leading Montalvo Global into the next quarter.”
“The markets will love it, the stock will jump three points, and we can handle any internal complaints privately at home.”
I looked at him, leaning back slightly in the leather armchair.
“You still think this is about a job title, Alexander?”
He blinked, momentarily thrown off balance.
“What else could it possibly be about?”
I didn't answer him right away.
Instead, I pointed my finger directly at Camila, who was hovering near the door, terrified to pull out a chair.
“Ms. Reyes, place your left wrist on the table.”
Camila gasped, pulling her left arm behind her back instantly.
“What? Why?”
“I said, put your wrist on the table.”
“Eleanor, this is completely inappropriate!” Alexander barked, his voice rising in alarm.
“You cannot interrogate my staff about her personal accessories!”
“Her personal accessories?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Walter, pull up the wire transfer logs from the private treasury account for July 14th.”
Walter tapped his tablet, and within three seconds, the massive eighty-inch display screen on the boardroom wall flickered to life.
A detailed transaction record appeared on the screen, highlighted in red.
Date: July 14th.
Amount: $148,000 USD.
Recipient: Audemars Piguet Private Client Suite, Fifth Avenue.
Description: One Royal Oak Offshore Lady White Ceramic, serial number limited edition 04/10.
Source of funds: Eleanor Vance-Montalvo Personal Liquidity Trust.
The silence in the room became absolute.
Marcus Vance looked at the screen, then looked down at Camila’s wrist, his expression turning grave.
“Alexander,” I said, my voice dropping to a calm, deadly whisper.
“A month ago, I authorized that transfer from my personal inheritance account.”
“I asked you to pick up that specific timepiece because your mother had mentioned wanting a white ceramic watch for her seventieth birthday milestone.”
“You called me three days later to tell me that the boutique had experienced an inventory shortage, that the piece had been mistakenly allocated to a royal client from Monaco, and that you had returned the funds to our corporate escrow.”
Alexander’s throat worked convulsively, but no words came out.
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“So tell me, Alexander,” I continued, leaning forward until my eyes locked onto his sweating forehead.
“Why is the limited-edition white ceramic watch that my personal money paid for sitting on the wrist of your executive secretary on a Monday morning in Manhattan?”
