Grant drives with a controlled, aggressive speed, weaving through the late afternoon traffic on Michigan Avenue. The privacy partition is down. The interior of the SUV is silent, save for the low murmur of the police scanner on Grant’s dashboard.
Audrey is sitting next to me. She is back in her jeans and the oversized sweater. She hasn't said a word since we left the boutique. She is staring out the window, her thumb pressing rhythmically against the side of her index finger.
I pull my phone out and dial the private number for the editor-in-chief of theChicago Tribune.
He answers on the second ring. "Malcolm. I assume you are calling about the article."
"I am calling to inform you that I am currently three blocks away from your building," I say, my voice devoid of any inflection. "You have five minutes to assemble your editorial board in the main conference room. If you do not, I will file an injunction against your publication for receiving and distributing stolen legal documents, and I will tie your legal department up in litigation for the next decade."
"The document was provided by a verified source, Malcolm. It’s a matter of public interest."
"It is a stolen contract." I look out the window as the gothic architecture of the Tribune Tower comes into view. "Five minutes, David."
I hang up the phone.
Audrey turns her head to look at me. The panic in her eyes has receded, replaced by a cautious, desperate curiosity.
"What are you going to do?" she asks quietly.
"I am going to change the narrative."
The SUV pulls up to the curb in front of the massive stone building. There are no paparazzi here yet. The story broke less than an hour ago; the media circus is currently focused on the Vance holding company headquarters, not the newspaper that published the leak.
Grant opens the door. I step out, offering Audrey my hand.
She takes it. Her grip is tight, her knuckles white.
We walk through the revolving doors and cross the busy lobby. The security guards at the front desk recognize me immediately. They don't ask for identification. They simply badge us through the turnstiles.
We take the elevator to the executive floor.
When the doors open, David, the editor-in-chief, is waiting in the hallway. He is a man in his late fifties, wearing a wrinkled shirt and a look of deep, professional exhaustion. He looks at me, then at Audrey, his eyes lingering briefly on the vintage diamond on her finger.
"The board is in the conference room," David says, gesturing down the hall. "But I have to warn you, Malcolm. The story is already live. We can't retract it without proof that the document is a forgery."
"I am not here to ask for a retraction," I reply, walking past him.
I push the glass doors of the conference room open.
Six people are sitting around a long, polished oak table. They stop talking the moment I walk in.
I don't sit down. I stand at the head of the table, keeping Audrey firmly by my side. I place both hands flat on the wood, leaning forward slightly. The physical dominance of the posture is deliberate.
"You published a contract stating that my engagement to Audrey Jennings is a financial transaction," I say, my voice echoing in the quiet room.
A woman near the end of the table—the senior legal counsel for the paper, if I remember correctly—clears her throat. "Mr. Vance, the signatures on the document have been verified. The transfer of funds to Miss Jennings' escrow account has been confirmed by our sources. It is a legitimate contract."
"It was a legitimate contract," I correct her.
I reach into the inside pocket of my suit jacket. I pull out a folded piece of paper and toss it onto the center of the table.
It lands with a soft slap.
David walks over and picks it up. He unfolds it, his brow furrowing as he reads the text.
"What is this?" the legal counsel asks.
"That is a legal dissolution of the contract," I say smoothly. "Signed and notarized by my personal attorney three days ago. The consulting fee has been returned to the Vance Security operating fund. The non-disclosure clauses have been voided."
