Chapter 3 - The Boardroom on Wall StreetAt 9:00 AM on Monday morning, the seventy-fifth-floor executive suite of the Rahal Global Tower on Wall Street was illuminated by bright morning sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the New York Harbor.
I walked into the primary boardroom wearing a tailored midnight-blue pantsuit, my dark hair swept back in an elegant, professional knot, carrying an encrypted leather tablet.
Sitting around the wide mahogany conference table were sixteen senior vice presidents, corporate directors, and legal counsels.
Standing near the head of the table was Victor Vance—a sixty-year-old senior logistics director who had spent ten years using his corporate position to siphon secondary dock fees into private accounts.
Victor looked up as I took my seat at the right hand of Kareem Rahal’s executive chair, his eyes scanning my dark blazer with a cold, condescending sneer.
"Don Kareem," Victor spoke smoothly, adjusting his silk tie. "We reviewed the Q3 operational reports for the Brooklyn terminals. We are concerned about the introduction of a new executive advisor without prior board approval. The staff is whispering that Miss Brooks was serving tables on Fifth Avenue three days ago."
The surrounding directors chuckled softly, leaning back in their leather chairs.
I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my voice.
I rested my hands flat on the polished mahogany table, my hazel eyes locking onto Victor Vance's face with a razor-sharp, freezing clarity that made his smile fade.
"I was serving tables on Fifth Avenue three days ago, Mr. Vance," I spoke cleanly into the quiet room. "And while I was serving tables, I noticed that Vance Maritime Logistics billed Rahal Global four point two million dollars for secondary fuel surcharges at Pier 42."
Victor’s face went paper-white. "What... what are you talking about?"
I tapped my encrypted tablet once, projecting digital ledgers onto the massive wall screen behind me.
"Pier 42 has been operating on solar-grid power since June," I revealed flatly. "Your fuel surcharges were fabricated through a shell firm registered in Delaware under your brother's name."
The entire boardroom went dead, breathlessly quiet.
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Kareem Rahal walked into the room at that exact second, wearing a sharp black suit, his storm-gray eyes sweeping over the frozen faces of his directors.
"Pack your desk, Victor," Kareem commanded flatly, stepping up behind my chair, resting his broad hand protectively on my shoulder. "Miss Brooks just saved this firm four million dollars in her first ten minutes."
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