Chapter 3 - The Wolf’s Retribution
Grant Bennett adjusted his silk tie in the mirror of his executive washroom, admiring the crisp lines of his Tom Ford suit.
He looked tired, yes, but it was an *effective* tired. The slight dark circles beneath his eyes played perfectly into the narrative. He had practiced his expression in the rearview mirror three times before walking into the Bennett Development headquarters: a delicate balance of devastated husband and steadfast leader carrying on through tragedy.
"Tragic, really," Grant muttered to himself, splashing a drop of cold water onto his cheeks to simulate the dampness of sorrow. "Just tragic."
His assistant, Sarah, knocked briskly on the frosted glass door. "Mr. Bennett? The press pool is gathering in the conference room. Channel 5 and the *Chicago Tribune* are both here. They want a statement regarding Mrs. Bennett's disappearance."
"Thank you, Sarah. Give me two minutes," Grant called out, his voice choked with manufactured emotion.
He smiled at his reflection. Everything was falling into place.
Claire was probably dead in a ditch somewhere on the South Side. And even if she wasn't—even if she woke up in some free clinic—her word was worth nothing against his. He had already transferred the last sixty thousand dollars from their joint savings account into an offshore trust in the Cayman Islands. He had her laptop, which contained all the design blueprints for the upcoming Riverfront Promenade project, safely locked in his private safe.
He had already drafted the press release attributing the entire Promenade design solely to his genius. If Claire ever dared to crawl back, he would have her involuntarily committed to a psychiatric facility in rural Wisconsin before she could even contact a lawyer.
Straightening his cuffs, Grant strode out into the executive suite.
"Mr. Bennett," Sarah said, scurrying after him with an iPad. "There’s... there’s an issue."
Grant didn't slow his stride. "I told you, Sarah, any inquiries from Claire's estranged sister in Denver should be directed to our legal team."
"No, sir. It’s not her sister. It’s the City Planning Commission. And... and the Sterling Group."
Grant stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. The Sterling Group was the primary private equity fund backing the hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar Riverfront Promenade bid. The final contract signing was scheduled for tomorrow morning. It was the project that was supposed to elevate Grant Bennett into the national spotlight.
"What about them?" Grant snapped, dropping the grieving-husband facade for a split second.
"They just canceled tomorrow's signing."
"What?" Grant’s voice cracked. "Why? On what grounds? We beat out every firm in the Midwest! The Mayor personally endorsed my architectural concept!"
"They didn't give a reason, sir," Sarah said, her voice shaking under his glare. "They just sent a formal notice of termination. And... Mr. Bennett, look at the financial news."
She thrust the iPad into his hands.
The headline on *Bloomberg* made the blood drain from Grant’s face so fast he had to grab the edge of Sarah’s desk to keep his balance:
**VANCE INFRASTRUCTURE ANNOUNCES SURPRISE BID FOR RIVERFRONT PROMENADE; STERLING GROUP SECURES ACQUISITION OF BENNETT DEVELOPMENT DEBT.**
"Vance?" Grant choked out, his vision blurring. "Roman Vance? Why the hell would Vance care about a municipal riverfront project? That's pennies to him! He builds deep-water ports and aerospace facilities!"
Before Sarah could answer, the glass double doors of the executive floor swung open.
Four men entered. They weren't journalists. They were men in matching charcoal suits, carrying heavy leather briefcases, flanked by two armed private security contractors. Leading them was a woman with razor-sharp cheekbones and eyes like frozen steel.
"Grant Bennett?" she asked, her voice echoing in the dead silence of the floor.
"Who the hell are you?" Grant demanded, puffing out his chest, trying to summon the arrogance that usually worked on city inspectors. "You can't just barge into my private offices! I have a press conference—"
"I am Victoria Cross, Chief Legal Counsel for Vance Global," the woman said, walking straight up to him and slapping a thick stack of legal documents against his chest. "As of eight o'clock this morning, Vance Capital has purchased ninety-two percent of Bennett Development’s outstanding commercial paper from your secondary lenders."
Grant’s fingers spasmed around the papers. "You... you bought my debt? That's impossible. My notes weren't due for renewal until next quarter!"
"They contained an acceleration clause tied to reputational risk and sudden leadership instability," Victoria replied with clinical venom. "Given the public scandal involving your missing wife, Vance Capital has exercised its right to demand full liquidity. You owe four-point-two million dollars by five o'clock today, Mr. Bennett."
"Four million?!" Grant roared, sweat breaking out across his forehead. "Nobody has that kind of liquidity on four hours' notice! My capital is tied up in the land acquisitions for the Promenade!"
Victoria smiled. It was the smile of a barracuda scenting a crippled fish.
"Then I suggest you start liquidating your personal assets, Mr. Bennett. Your penthouse. Your sports cars. Your watch collection. Because if the wire is not received by five p.m., my team will initiate foreclosure proceedings on every square inch of drywall that bears your name."
"This is insane!" Grant yelled, his composure completely disintegrating as his staff watched in horror. "Roman Vance has no reason to do this to me! I’ve never even spoken to the man!"
Victoria turned on her heel to leave, pausing just before the elevator doors.
"Mr. Vance asked me to give you a personal message," she said, glancing over her shoulder.
Grant swallowed hard, his throat bone-dry. "What?"
"'Laughter sounds very different,'" Victoria quoted calmly, "'when you’re the one lying on the pavement.'"
May you like
The elevator doors slid shut with a chime, leaving Grant Bennett standing in the ruins of his morning, his heart pounding like a trapped bird inside his ribs.
***
