Chapter 10 - The Morning of Reckoning: Preparing the Boardroom for the Ultimate Ambush
By 9:00 AM, the top floor of Stanford Development was buzzing with uneasy energy.
News of Corbin’s late-night visit to the archives had already leaked to Uncle Richard. The seventy-two-year-old Chief Operating Officer arrived at the building accompanied by Arthur Vance and four senior corporate defense partners from Vance’s firm.
Richard Stanford was a man accustomed to getting his way through intimidation. Dressed in a bespoke pinstripe suit with a gold pocket watch chain, he stormed into the executive suite, slamming his walking cane against the carpeted floor.
“Where is my nephew?” Richard demanded of Corbin’s executive assistant.
“Mr. Stanford is in the Grand Boardroom, sir,” Eleanor replied calmly. “He has called an emergency session of the executive committee.”
Richard sneered, exchanging a confident glance with Vance. “The boy thinks he can challenge us because of some dead engineer’s scrapbooks. Let’s go put an end to this foolishness once and for all.”
Inside the Grand Boardroom, a massive oval table of polished teak was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows overlooking Narragansett Bay.
Corbin was already seated at the head of the table. He was dressed in a dark charcoal three-piece suit, his posture impeccably poised, a single leather folder resting before him.
Flanking the room were the independent board members, the Chief Financial Officer, and the head of public relations—all summoned by Corbin’s emergency priority order.
Richard and Vance walked in, taking their seats at the opposite end of the table with theatrical arrogance.
“Corbin,” Richard began, his tone dripping with patronizing condescension. “I understand you spent your night breaking into company property and harassing security contractors. If you are suffering from corporate burnout, the board is more than willing to grant you an immediate leave of absence while Arthur and I oversee the autumn acquisitions.”
Corbin did not blink. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the mahogany wood.
“Before we discuss leaves of absence, Uncle Richard,” Corbin said smoothly, “we have a special guest joining our presentation this morning.”
The heavy frosted-glass doors of the boardroom swung open.
Lianna Prescott walked in.
She was no longer wearing her frayed gray wool coat or domestic uniform. She wore an elegant, tailored navy blazer and slacks, her head held high, her eyes radiating steady, unshakeable courage.
In her arms, she held baby Austin, dressed in a clean white sweater.
The color drained from Arthur Vance’s face instantly.
Uncle Richard gripped the handle of his cane so hard his knuckles turned white. “What is the meaning of this circus, Corbin? Why is a cleaning woman bringing an infant into a confidential executive session?”
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Corbin stood up, his voice echoing with absolute authority across the silent room:
“That ‘cleaning woman’ is Mrs. Lianna Prescott, the lawful widow of Chief Structural Engineer Samuel Prescott. And that child is Austin Stanford-Prescott—the sole heir to forty-two million dollars in stolen patent royalties currently sitting in your illegal Zurich shell accounts.”
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