Chapter 9 - The Anatomy of a Proxy
“Mr. Vance, what an absolute honor,” Julian Mercer said, extending a hand with smooth confidence. “And you must be Claire Vance Whitmore. I’ve read about your foundation’s incredible work.”
“It’s Claire Vance,” I corrected calmly, taking his hand with a firm, brief grip. “And thank you.”
Grant stood two paces behind Mercer, his breath smelling faintly of bourbon. He avoided my father’s gaze entirely, focusing his eyes on the marble floor between us.
“Grant here has been acting as a senior consultant for our North Texas acquisitions,” Mercer continued, blissfully oblivious—or expertly pretending to be—to the razor-wire tension in the air. “He speaks very highly of your family’s historical influence in logistics.”
“Does he?” my father asked, his voice as smooth as crushed ice. “That’s surprising. The last time Grant spoke about my family, he felt we were overly intrusive.”
Grant’s jaw clenched. “Arthur,” he muttered, his voice raspy. “It’s a professional evening.”
“It is,” I agreed, turning my attention directly to Grant. “Which makes me wonder why Apex Sovereign Capital is utilizing capital from the Whitmore Family Heritage Trust—a fund currently under federal court review for unregistered offshore transfers.”
Mercer’s smile froze. His eyes flicked rapidly between me and Grant.
“I beg your pardon?” Mercer said, his tone dropping its charm.
“You bought three of Whitmore Development’s distressed properties last month,” I said, keeping my voice loud enough for the nearby table of bank executives to hear clearly. “Funding was funneled through a primary investor registered in Grand Cayman. But three days ago, the Department of Justice issued a subpoena regarding that specific trust’s connection to marital fraud during our divorce proceedings.”
Grant stepped forward, his face flushing dark red. “Claire, stop it! You’ve already ruined my company—are you going to harass every business partner I work with?!”
“Harassment implies falsehood, Grant,” I said, my voice steady, unhurried, and completely devoid of anger. “I am simply stating public court records.”
Rebecca Shaw stepped out from the crowd behind us, holding an official leather folio. She pulled out a single sheet of paper and handed it directly to Julian Mercer.
May you like
“Mr. Mercer,” Rebecca said politely. “As counsel for Vance Enterprises, I am formally serving Apex Sovereign Capital with a notice of pending third-party litigation regarding encumbered assets.”
Mercer took the paper. As his eyes skimmed the legal notice, his face drained of color. He looked at Grant not as a valuable consultant, but as a biohazard.
