Chapter 5 - THE THIRTY-FOURTH FLOOR
Griffith did not speak. He stood paralyzed between the two women, his hands trembling at his sides, looking completely diminished inside his bespoke Tom Ford dinner suit.
"He can't answer you, Bianca," Solange said, stepping forward. "Because every dollar Aura Capital borrowed against the South Loop project required an underlying asset guarantee. Griffith signed those guarantees using Whitaker Urban’s corporate credit. But Whitaker Urban’s credit is collateralized by the ground lease held by Vane-Sterling."
Bianca clutched her leather folder tighter against her chest, her knuckles turning chalky white. "That... that’s impossible. The Delaware filings were cleared by our attorneys."
"Your attorneys were paid with checks drawn on an account that was frozen at five o'clock today," Solange said calmly. "You see, Bianca, you were so busy playing the brilliant strategist, so busy rearranging my seating charts and telling my husband how small I was, that you never bothered to check who owned the pen he was signing with."
Bianca took a furious, trembling step toward Solange, her teeth bared. "You think you've won? You think you can just wave some archaic family paperwork and erase three years of development? Griffith and I built the political capital in this city! We have the mayor’s office! We have the planning commission! You are a ghost, Solange! A relic living off dead money!"
"Then you shouldn't have any trouble building your tower without my land," Solange replied smoothly. "Thomas!"
From the foyer doorway, the building’s head of security, flanked by two uniformed Chicago police officers, stepped quietly into the gallery.
Bianca froze, her face draining of all color.
"Ms. Harrow," Solange said, her voice devoid of any anger, carrying only the absolute weight of command. "You assaulted me two hours ago in front of eight witnesses at the Harrington Club. The club's surveillance footage has already been handed over to the Cook County State's Attorney's office. Officer Miller here is simply ensuring you leave this private residence without incident. If you ever set foot in this building, or within five hundred feet of me again, the misdemeanor complaint turns into an immediate arrest warrant."
"Griffith!" Bianca shrieked, backing toward the elevator as the officers approached. "Do something! Tell them to get out! Griffith!"
Griffith didn't even look at her. He kept his eyes glued to the polished floorboards, completely broken, terrified that any word he uttered would cause Solange to drop the next hammer.
"Mr. Whitaker has no authority in this building, ma'am," Officer Miller said firmly, placing a gloved hand on Bianca’s elbow. "Please step into the elevator."
Bianca pulled her arm away with a violent jerk, casting one final, venomous glare at Solange. "You will regret this! Both of you! You have no idea what Julian has already filed in Delaware!"
The elevator doors closed, cutting off her voice.
Silence returned to the penthouse. Griffith slowly sank onto the edge of a velvet sofa, burying his face in his trembling hands.
"Solange..." he muttered, his voice muffled by his palms. "What do you want? Just tell me what you want. Do you want a divorce? I'll sign whatever you put in front of me. Just... don't destroy the company. My name is on the building."
"Your name was on the lease of the building," Solange corrected him quietly. "Tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, the board of Whitaker Urban will convene on the thirty-fourth floor. You will be there. You will sit in the center seat. And you will execute the transfer documents Marcus Thorne has prepared."
May you like
"Transfer of what?" Griffith asked, lifting his head, terror flashing in his eyes.
"Everything," she said. "Now take your overnight bag and get out of my home. You have six hours to prepare your resignation statement."
