Suddenly the heavy oak doors of the vault room burst open. It was not the police. Not yet. It was Vihaan, the manager, looking pale and terrified. Behind him was Vance’s personal assistant, a young man named Greg who was glued to his tablet, looking like he was about to vomit. “Mr. Vance,” Greg shouted, running into the room. “Sir, you need to—oh my God.” “What is it?” Vance asked, trying to stand up, smoothing his suit, trying to regain a shred of dignity. “Handle this, Greg. Get security. Get the legal team on the phone.” “Sir, the legal team is resigning,” Greg stammered. “I just got an email from the firm. They’re dropping you. They’re citing a conflict of interest. But, sir, it’s the stock.” “What about the stock?” Vance snapped. “Vance Global,” Greg said, turning the tablet around so Vance could see. “It’s crashing. The algorithm picked up the live-stream sentiment. The board has called an emergency meeting. They’re moving to vote you out as CEO immediately.” “They can’t do that,” Vance yelled. “I am the company.” “Not anymore,” Annie said from the corner of the room.
Vance spun around to face her. “You—you little—” “Mr. Vance, please,” Vihaan interrupted, stepping between them. “There are reporters outside. Hundreds of them. They’re surrounding the building. CNN is live from the sidewalk. They’re asking about the Ross confession.” The Ross confession. It already had a name. Vance looked around the room. The empty chairs where his friends had sat. The spilled wine. The cracked phone on the floor. He looked at Annie one last time. He wanted to hate her. He wanted to destroy her. But as he looked into her eyes, eyes that looked so much like Arthur Ross’s, he realized that he had created this. He had built this trap himself, brick by brick, lie by lie, over twenty-five years.
“I have a helicopter on the roof,” Vance muttered, a plan forming in his panicked mind. “I can go to the Hamptons. I can take the jet to Belize. Non-extradition.” He turned to Greg. “Get the pilot ready. Now.” “Sir,” Greg backed away. “The pilot isn’t answering. And I think those are sirens.” From the street below, the sound began. A low wail, rising in pitch and intensity. One siren, then two, then a chorus. The NYPD. Annie walked over to the table and picked up her serving tray. She placed the empty glasses on it, her movements calm and methodical. “You asked for a simple answer, Sebastian,” Annie said. “You wanted to know the value of things.” She walked to the door, pausing just before she left the vault room forever. “The checkbook is still on the table,” she said. “You’re going to need it for your bail, if they grant it.” She pushed the doors open. The noise from the main restaurant flooded in, the sound of panic, of guests gossiping, of the world reacting to the fall of a giant. Annie stepped out, leaving Sebastian Vance alone in the center of his golden cage, listening to the sirens come for him.
The Obsidian Club, usually a sanctuary of hushed tones and polite society, had descended into anarchy. The NYPD had cordoned off the main entrance, blue and red strobe lights reflecting off the gold-leafed pillars. A swarm of paparazzi, tipped off by the viral live stream, pressed against the barricades like a tidal wave. They were not there for the celebrities tonight. They were there for the monster. Annie stood by the service exit in the alleyway. The cold November wind bit at her cheeks, but she did not feel it. She felt a strange, weightless sensation. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a deep, bone-weary exhaustion, but also a profound sense of peace.