Chapter 7: Sarah's Portrait
Marcus arrived at two in the afternoon.
He came through the main entrance, not the private one.
He was dressed well — he was always dressed well — and he smiled at the doorman and nodded at the front desk as though nothing in the world was wrong.
The lobby had been quiet since morning.
Harrison had kept the staff rotation light.
Dana and Renata were not on shift.
Lupita was.
She was arranging a flower display near the east corridor when Marcus walked in.
She glanced at him once, then looked away.
I was standing near the portrait.
Sarah's portrait hung at the end of the lobby's main gallery wall, where the light from the tall windows caught it in the late afternoon.
The painter had captured something that photographs never quite managed — the particular quality of her attention, the way she looked at things as though she was already thinking about how to make them better.
The roses were on the table beneath it.
Straightened now, in a proper vase.
Marcus saw me and crossed the lobby.
He glanced at the portrait as he approached, then looked away from it.
That small movement told me everything.
"Ethan." He extended his hand.
I didn't take it.
His hand dropped.
The smile stayed, but it tightened at the edges.
"You said you wanted to talk."
"I do," I said.
"Sit down."
We sat in the two chairs near the portrait wall.
Marcus crossed one leg over the other and rested his hands on his knee — relaxed, or performing relaxed.
"I want to understand something," I said.
"When Sarah asked me to give you the minority share — when she said you needed to feel like you belonged to something — did you already know what you were going to do with it?
Or did that come later?"
The smile disappeared.
"That's not fair," he said.
"Answer it."
"I built things too, Ethan.
I was there from the beginning.
I was at every meeting, every pitch, every—"
"You were there," I said.
"You were never a partner.
You know the difference."
"Sarah treated me like one."
"Sarah was kind to you.
That's not the same thing." I leaned forward slightly.
"Regent Future Holdings.
Cassandra Pryce.
The amendment to the asset register.
The notary at the gala.
Tell me I'm wrong about what you were trying to do."
Marcus's jaw tightened.
He looked at the portrait for the first time — really looked at it — then back at me.
"You were going to lose this property anyway," he said.
"There are three institutional investors who want out of the Vance Group structure.
I've seen the communications.
You're going to face a forced restructure within eighteen months whether you like it or not.
I was trying to position myself so that when it happened, there was something left."
"By stealing voting rights."
"By protecting my interest."
"Lily's name is in the trust documents," I said.
"Not yours.
Not a Delaware holding company.
Lily's.
She is six years old and she lost her mother and you were going to use her inheritance as a bargaining chip with a property developer."
Marcus stood up.
"You don't know what's coming," he said.
"I was trying to—"
"Sit down, Marcus."
He didn't sit.
But he didn't walk away either.
"The amendment has no legal standing," I said.
"It was never authorized.
The access logs are documented.
The email to Harrison is documented.
Forsythe's presence at the gala is documented.
Diane's litigation specialist has reviewed all of it." I paused.
"You have one option.
You surrender the minority share back to the Vance Group trust voluntarily, today, in writing, with no conditions.
In exchange, I don't pursue this further."
"And if I don't?"
I looked at him steadily.
"Then Diane files on Monday, the access logs become part of a public legal record, and every institutional investor you mentioned — the ones you've apparently been speaking to privately — will read about it in the financial press before the end of the month."
Marcus's face had gone through several things in the past two minutes.
Now it settled into something harder and quieter.
"You'd do that," he said.
"To your own brother."
"You did this," I said.
"In this building.
Under her portrait." I glanced at Sarah.
"You did this here."
He looked at the portrait again.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he sat back down.
His hands were no longer resting easily on his knee.
They were pressed together, fingers interlocked.
"I need a week," he said.
His voice was different now.
Smaller.
"You have until five o'clock today."
He looked up.
"My lawyer needs time to—"
"Diane will have the paperwork ready within the hour.
Your lawyer can review it by phone.
Five o'clock, Marcus."
He looked at the roses on the table beneath Sarah's portrait.
The bent stems, the slightly bruised petals.
"She would have been disappointed in me," he said.
It wasn't a question.
I didn't answer.
He stood, straightened his jacket, and walked toward the lobby entrance without looking back.
At the door, he stopped.
"The institutional investors," he said, without turning around.
"I wasn't lying about that.
May you like
You should look into it."
Then he walked out.
