The room was silent, dominated by a long table of polished walnut that reflected the gray light from the tall windows.

Rain lashed against the glass, blurring the Manhattan skyline into gray smudges.

Six board members sat around the table, their faces grim.

On the large video screen at the end of the room, four more faces stared back from digital tiles.

Arthur Vance, my father’s oldest friend and the senior board member, looked up as I entered.

“Claire,” Arthur said, his voice raspy with age. “We were just discussing the urgent nature of this call.”

Beside him sat Samantha Mercer, Preston’s chief financial officer and mistress.

She wore a tailored gray suit, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight, flawless bun.

She did not look at me, but I saw her fingers clutching a silver pen so tightly her knuckles were white.

“This meeting is highly irregular,” Samantha said, her voice sharp and trembling slightly. “The CEO is currently traveling on urgent company business.”

“The CEO is currently trying to flee the country with fifty million dollars of corporate funds,” I said.