Chapter 3 - The Fall of Sterling
The ballroom erupted into a muffled sea of gasps. The name *Vance* hung in the air like a sudden drop in barometric pressure.
Bianca froze, her hand still raised in the air. "Vance? What... what Vance? You can't just throw me out! My father owns fifteen percent of this hotel development fund!"
"Your father held fifteen percent of the secondary debt tranche," Nicholas replied, not even turning his head to look at her. "He borrowed that capital from Vance Heritage Asset Management three weeks ago to cover his liquidity crisis in Macau. As of six o'clock this morning, that debt matured. I decided an hour ago not to extend the note."
Nicholas looked down at Iris, his hand resting securely on the small of her back, providing a fortress of stability. "Which means your father owns nothing here. And neither do you."
Delia Ford, the supervisor who had stepped forward earlier with the tablecloth, stood wide-eyed near the catering cart. Nicholas caught her eye and nodded gently. "You're Delia?"
"Y-yes, sir," she stuttered, instinctively smoothing her apron.
"My wife tells me you know what decency is," Nicholas said, the trace of a warm smile touching his lips before vanishing back into granite. "As of tomorrow morning, you are the Director of Hospitality for Vance Properties Pacific. Mr. Miller will hand over his keys to you by five o'clock today, since he appears incapable of protecting his staff from entitled predators."
General Manager Miller looked as though he might faint. He opened his mouth to beg, saw the look in Nicholas’s eyes, and immediately clamped it shut, nodding with bowed shoulders. "Yes, Mr. Vance. Immediately, sir."
Bianca’s arrogance finally splintered into hysterical panic. "Miles! Do something! Call my father! Tell him this man is threatening our family!"
Miles Corrigan took a deliberate step away from Bianca. His face was drenched in cold sweat. "Don't touch me, Bianca. Mr. Vance... Nicholas, sir... I had no idea Iris was... was Mrs. Vance. When she applied for the catering rotation three months ago, she was registered under the surname Miller. We thought—"
Iris stepped forward from beneath Nicholas’s arm. Her torn uniform was hidden beneath his jacket, but her chin was high, her dark eyes flashing with an icy brilliance that rivalled her husband’s.
"You thought I was disposable, Miles," Iris said clearly, ensuring every socialite with a camera heard her. "You thought that because a woman carries a tray of hors d'oeuvres, she has no dignity. You stood there two minutes ago and calculated that Bianca's family was worth more than a human being's safety. That wasn't a business decision. That was cowardice."
Miles flinched as if struck across the mouth.
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"Escort Miss Sterling off the property," Nicholas ordered the security guards, who moved in unison like heavy iron gates. "If she resists, file criminal charges for assault and battery. The footage from those ballroom cameras will be on the district attorney’s desk within the hour."
Two burly guards took Bianca by her manicured arms. "Let go of me! Do you know who I am? Miles! Daddy!" Her shrieks echoed down the gilded corridor, fading into the grand foyer until the heavy brass doors thudded shut.
