Julian Sterling spent the next forty-eight hours trying to regain control of a situation that had escaped him.
He called Conrad Vale repeatedly.
At first, Conrad answered.
Then the conversations became shorter.
Finally, the financier began directing most communication through counsel.
Julian hated that.
He had depended on Conrad's confidence throughout the planning process. Now, with independent investigators examining the agreement and his father refusing to speak privately, Conrad seemed determined to protect himself.
“You said the structure would work,” Julian snapped during one call.
Conrad remained calm.
“I said the structure required proper authorization.”
Julian stared at the phone.
“You drafted the financing arrangement.”
“Our counsel prepared drafts based on information supplied by your team.”
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend this was all my idea.”
Conrad's voice hardened.
“Julian, you should stop discussing this directly. Have your lawyer contact mine.”
Then the call ended.
Julian threw his phone onto the sofa.
For several seconds, he stood motionless in his Manhattan apartment.
It occupied an entire floor of a luxury building.
The living room overlooked the river.
Paintings worth hundreds of thousands of dollars hung on the walls.
And a private elevator opened directly into the apartment.
He had everything his younger self once imagined success would provide.
Except control of his father's company.
And now he was closer to losing everything than he'd ever been.
His personal lawyer, Aaron Beck, arrived that evening.
He was fifty-three, experienced in corporate litigation, and visibly unimpressed by Julian's attempts to describe the affair as a misunderstanding.
They sat across from each other.
Aaron opened a folder.
“I need the complete document history.”
Julian folded his arms.
“My staff handled the drafts.”
“Then identify who prepared them.”
“Several people.”
“Names.”
Julian stared.
Aaron didn't move.
Finally, Julian provided a list.
The lawyer examined it.
Then asked about the certification containing Eleanor Sterling's signature.
Julian's expression tightened.
“It was a historical document.”
Aaron looked toward him.
“Why was it dated this month?”
Julian hesitated.
“A document assembly error.”
The lawyer nodded slowly.
“Who assembled it?”
Julian didn't answer.
Aaron closed the folder.
For a moment, his expression became serious.
“Julian, I can represent you in a dispute. I can't help you manufacture a false account of what happened.”
Julian's face reddened.
“I'm not lying.”
Aaron held his gaze.
“Then give me the records.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Julian looked away.
The truth was that he'd stopped thinking of the documents as ordinary contracts months earlier.
They had become instruments in a private war with his father.