CHAPTER 3: THE CALL TO THE ARCHITECT
Victor pushed past her. He didn't run, because Langleys never ran. But his walk was a fraction too fast, his shoulders too rigid. The rain had started to fall harder outside the restaurant, slicking the pavement in a reflection of neon and headlights. He ignored the valet. He ignored his driver waiting by the sleek black sedan. Instead, he pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. He dialed the only person who could explain the impossible. His father.
The line rang twice before a smooth, aged voice answered. “Victor. You’re supposed to be at the gala.” “I’m at the restaurant,” Victor breathed, the cold air biting his lungs. “The one on 5th.” “And?” Victor closed his eyes, leaning against the damp brick of the alleyway. “Elena Carlisle is here.” Silence on the other end. Heavy. Thick. Calculated. “That name shouldn't be in your vocabulary, Victor. We handled the Carlisle situation.” “No, you didn't,” Victor snapped, his voice echoing off the wet brick. “She just humiliated me in front of the entire board. She owns the restaurant, Dad. She owns part of the Langley Trust.”
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A sharp intake of breath over the receiver. “That’s impossible,” his father said. But he didn't sound angry. He sounded cornered. “I saw the files,” Victor pressed. “I saw the Correction Initiative. I saw your signature. What did you do to her father?” “Victor, get in your car and come home immediately. Do not speak to her again. Do not engage.” “Dad, she has an 18.4% stake! How did she infiltrate the trust?” “I said come home!” his father barked, the polished veneer finally cracking. “If she activated the archive, it means the firewall is down. We have less than twelve hours before the SEC gets an automated ping.” The line went dead.
Victor stared at his phone. The rain soaked through his expensive Italian suit, chilling him to the bone. Elena hadn't just embarrassed him. She had triggered a countdown. And Victor was standing at ground zero.
