"...and once the final appraisal reflects the revenue decline over the third quarter," Julian was saying smoothly, his pen tapping a document, "the minority buyout clause is triggered automatically. The primary owner won't have the liquidity to match the cash offer, forcing a distress liquidation under Section 14—"
"Julian," I called out, my voice cutting cleanly through the quiet room.
Julian froze. The gold fountain pen slipped from his fingers, rolling across the mahogany surface and leaving a smear of blue ink on the white paper beneath it.
Every man at the table turned.
Julian’s face went through three distinct colors in two seconds: crimson, pale white, then an ash-gray that made his expensive tan look like cheap makeup.
"M-Marcus?" Julian pushed his chair back, the legs screeching against the floorboards. "What... what are you doing here? You're in Green Bay until Friday."
"The concrete pour finished twenty-four hours early," I said, walking slowly toward the table, my hands tucked loosely into my pockets. "I decided to come home and take my niece to dinner. But your little girl at the front desk told me I looked too much like a working man to sit in my own dining room."
Vincent Sterling leaned back in his leather executive chair, his eyes narrowing as he evaluated me with cold calculation. "Is this the primary partner, Julian? I thought you said he was an absentee investor who only looked at annual tax returns."
"He... he is," Julian stammered, frantically trying to slide a leather portfolio over the architectural drawings. "Marcus, please. This is an extremely delicate private acquisition meeting. We are in the middle of closing a debt-refinancing deal to expand into Miami. You can't just barge in here in your casual clothes and interrupt institutional investors."
"Debt refinancing?" I echoed, reaching the edge of the table.
Before Julian could pull the documents away, my hand came down flat on the center of the leather portfolio, pinning it to the wood.
"That's funny," I said, leaning down so my face was only twelve inches from his. "Because from where I'm standing, those blueprints don't look like an expansion in Miami. They look like a demolition permit for The Copper Hearth."
CHAPTER 3
Julian tried to pull the folder from beneath my palm, but thirty-five years of working iron and framing lumber gave my grip an immovable weight. His knuckles turned white, his breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts.
"Marcus, you're completely misinterpreting this," Julian pleaded, his voice dropping into that slick, patronizing cadence he always used when trying to soothe angry vendors. "Apex Heights is exploring a joint venture. We're looking at air-rights development above the existing parcel. We aren't demolishing anything. It's a vertical integration plan to maximize square-footage valuation."
"Is that why your blueprints say Phase 1: Full Structural Raze and Subsurface Remediation?" a clear, sharp voice called out from the doorway.
I glanced back. Maya stood at the top of the mezzanine stairs, her rain-dampened blazer unbuttoned, her chin held high. In her hands, she held her phone, the screen glowing brightly with a digital document viewer. Behind her, looking terrified, stood Derek Cole.
"Maya, get downstairs," Julian snapped, attempting to reclaim an ounce of authority. "This is an executive board meeting. Family members are not permitted on the operational floor."
"I'm not here as a family member, Mr. Croft," Maya replied calmly, walking straight to the table. She laid her state licensing certificate right on top of his legal paperwork. "I'm a licensed architect. And more importantly, I'm the designated structural consultant on file for the Johnson Trust, which holds eighty percent of the equity in this building."
Vincent Sterling, who had remained silent, leaned forward, his sharp gray eyes darting between Maya and me. He turned his gaze on Julian, his voice laced with cold fury.
"Croft, you presented a signed proxy waiver certifying that Marcus Johnson had granted you sole power of attorney over property disposition due to chronic health issues. You assured my board that the title transfer was fully pre-approved."
The air left the room like a punctured tire.
"Power of attorney?" I whispered, straightening my back.
I looked at Julian. His eyes were wide, darting toward the fire exit at the rear of the mezzanine. Sweat was now visibly dripping down his temples, soaking the starched collar of his three-hundred-dollar shirt.
"Julian," I said, my voice dead and quiet. "Look at me."