Chapter 8 - The Walk Of Cardboard Boxes
Two armed private security guards stepped into Conference Room C before Arthur Sterling had even reached the elevator bank.
Frank stood by the heavy glass door, holding a standard brown cardboard box tucked under his arm.
"Stand up, Mr. Miller," Frank said, his voice completely stripped of its usual morning warmth.
Lucas did not move for several seconds.
His eyes darted from the polished mahogany surface to my face, searching for a single crack in my composure.
He found nothing.
I sat back in my chair, folding my hands neatly over Marcus Vance’s leather portfolio.
"Clarissa, you can't let them do this," Lucas muttered, his voice dropping into a desperate, frantic whisper that bounced off the acoustic paneling.
"Think about nine years of our lives together."
"Think about what people in our circle will say when this hits the local press."
"They won't say anything about me, Lucas," I replied, my voice steady and cold.
"They will only say that a corrupt employee got caught stealing from his firm and his family on the very same weekend."
"Time to move, Lucas," Frank insisted, setting the cardboard box down with a sharp thump on the conference table.
Eleanor Vance stood up, gathered her laptop, and closed her notes without casting a single glance at her disgraced colleague.
Lucas slowly pushed himself out of the leather executive chair.
His knees wobbled visibly beneath his wrinkled trousers.
When he stepped out of Conference Room C into the main hallway of the thirty-fourth floor, the entire trading bullpen went dead silent.
Sixty financial analysts, portfolio managers, and administrative assistants stopped typing.
Monitors glowed with green and red market trends, but every set of eyes was locked on the fallen Senior Vice President.
At the end of the corridor, near the glass cubicles of the junior research team, Chloe was already surrounded by HR personnel.
Her personal belongings—a ceramic mug, a designer planner, and two framed desktop photographs—were being unceremoniously swept into a grey plastic tub by a security guard.
Chloe was crying, mascara running in dark streaks down her cheeks, her voice rising in shrill panic.
"Aunt Eleanor! Please! You know this wasn't my fault!" Chloe pleaded as Eleanor walked past her without breaking stride.
"He told me he was running the division!"
"He told me everything was approved!"
Eleanor Vance paused for a fraction of a second, her back perfectly rigid.
"You traded your professional license for hotel receipts and champagne, Chloe," Eleanor said loud enough for the entire bullpen to hear.
"Clean out your locker before building security revokes your badge at the turnstiles."
Lucas tried to look straight ahead as Frank escorted him past his corner office.
The heavy door was already locked with yellow tamper-evident tape stretched across the keyhole.
Inside, his Italian leather executive chair and the panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean sat waiting for an interim director who had not spent client funds on illicit retreats.
"Keep walking, Miller," the second guard commanded, pressing a heavy hand against Lucas’s shoulder blade.
Lucas dragged his feet all the way to the elevator lobby.
When the elevator doors slid shut, sealing him inside with his cardboard box and two security officers, a low hum of chatter erupted behind him across the executive floor.
His nine-year climb to the summit of Apex Capital had ended in twenty-seven minutes.
I walked down the main staircase toward the lobby five minutes later, flanked by Marcus.
The midday California sun was pouring through the towering glass facade of the building, warming the marble floors.
Outside on the sidewalk, Lucas was standing by the curb, frantically tapping the cracked screen of his smartphone.
A yellow taxi pulled up to the curb, but when Lucas reached for the handle, the driver shook his head and drove off, unwilling to deal with a passenger whose digital fare had failed to authorize.
Lucas turned and saw me walking out through the revolving doors.
He lunged toward me, dropping his cardboard box onto the sidewalk.
A plastic desk clock and a silver executive pen tumbled across the concrete.
"Clarissa! Look at me!" he shouted, his face purple with rage.
Marcus immediately stepped forward, placing his broad frame directly between Lucas and me.
"Step back six feet, Mr. Miller," Marcus warned, his hand slipping inside his suit jacket toward his phone.
"You are in violation of the temporary restraining order served to you at your residence yesterday afternoon."
Lucas clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned chalk-white.
"You took my job!" he screamed, uncaring that passing pedestrians in business suits were turning to stare.
"You took my accounts!"
"You poisoned my own mother against me!"
"What am I supposed to do now?"
I stopped on the top step of the plaza, looking down at the man who had spent seven years treating my devotion like an unpaid service.
"You should probably ask Chloe for a ride, Lucas," I said calmly.
May you like
"Because after today, neither my family trust nor Apex Capital will be paying your taxi fare."
I turned toward Marcus's waiting town car, slid into the leather backseat, and closed the door on his shouting before the light turned green.
