Chapter 3 - The Summons to the High Table
The four-day wait before the meeting was an exercise in corporate terror for Reed Energy.
From the back-channel memos crossing my desk, I watched Ethan’s firm thrash like a fish caught in a net. Ethan had called every contact he possessed in Houston, London, and New York. None of them would touch his distressed debt. Vanguard-Foster’s reputation in the market was iron-clad: when Vanguard held your notes during a liquidity crisis, you either met their terms or they liquidated your assets on the courthouse steps.
On Sunday night, a mutual contact from Chicago—a woman who had dropped me the day Ethan announced his engagement to Sophia—sent me a breathless text:
*Claire! Have you heard about Ethan? He and Sophia just flew out to New York on a private charter. Something massive is happening with his firm. Sophia posted from the first-class lounge wearing a five-carat tennis bracelet Ethan gave her for 'good luck' before his big investor summit! Men are so crazy, right? Hope you're surviving New York! It must be so expensive!*
I didn't reply. I deleted the text, took a sip of chamomile tea, and reviewed the final forensic audit of Reed Energy’s cash reserves.
Monday morning arrived crisp and blindingly bright. The temperature hovered near twenty degrees, but inside the headquarters of Vanguard-Foster, the climate was tropical and controlled.
At nine-forty-five, I stood in my office on the forty-fourth floor. I looked in the full-length mirror behind my desk.
The Claire Morgan who had lived in Chicago had worn loose knit sweaters, comfortable flat shoes, and pulled her dark hair into a messy, practical clip so she could clean the kitchen before Ethan returned from the airport.
The woman in the glass today wore a custom charcoal wool-crepe suit by an Italian atelier, the waist sharply tailored, the lapels sharp as scalpels. My hair was blown out into a sleek, glossy wave that fell precisely over my shoulders. Around my neck hung a thin, simple choker of platinum—bought with my own commission check. My face was sculpted by light, my lips painted in a neutral, deliberate plum.
There was no fear in my eyes. There was not even anger. There was only the dreadful, terrifying clarity of someone who had survived the worst thing a person could endure and found out she was indestructible.
My executive assistant, a whip-smart graduate from Columbia named Maya, tapped softly on the door and poked her head inside.
"Ms. Morgan? The delegation from Reed Energy Partners has arrived. They’re being escorted to Executive Boardroom A."
"How many?" I asked smoothly.
"Three," Maya said, consulting her tablet. "Mr. Ethan Reed, CEO; Mr. Marcus Vance, their outside corporate counsel; and... a guest. A Mrs. Sophia Reed. Mr. Reed insisted she join as his 'strategic advisor.' Our security front desk tried to stop her, but Mr. Reed threw a minor fit in the lobby."
I felt the corner of my mouth tug upward. Sophia had insisted on coming. Of course she had. She couldn't bear the thought of Ethan being in the presence of elite financiers without her standing beside him, claiming her territory, flaunting her new status as the trophy bride of an energy titan.
"Did you provide the non-disclosure agreements?"
"Yes, ma'am. They signed them downstairs."
"Very good. Give them ten minutes to stew. Ensure Mr. Foster is informed. Then bring in the files."
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I picked up the black leather folder containing the debt analysis, took a slow, deep breath that filled my lungs with cool, clean air, and stepped out into the marble hallway.
***
