Chapter 4 - The Ascent of Marcus Vance
Up on the sixty-fifth floor, inside the sprawling, soundproof executive penthouse suite of The Grand Brooks, Marcus Vance was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk reviewing the third-quarter financial ledger.
At forty-five, Marcus was the Chief Executive Officer of Brooks International, a man who had engineered his rise through ruthless corporate restructuring, aggressive cost-cutting, and a total disregard for anything that didn't immediately translate to a higher stock valuation. He wore a bespoke Italian suit, a diamond-encrusted Rolex on his wrist, and a permanent, predatory smile.
His private desk phone chimed with a sharp, high-priority ring that bypassed all standard switchboards.
Frowning at the interruption, Marcus picked up the receiver. "Vance speaking. This better be good; I'm reviewing regional yields."
"Mr. Vance," the voice of the lobby security chief trembled through the speaker. "Sir... you need to come down to the ground floor immediately."
"Downstairs? Why? Is there a VIP arrival?"
"No, sir. It's... well, sir, there's an emergency situation with a trespasser, and... and Founder Brooks is down here."
Marcus froze. The pen in his hand slipped, rolling across the mahogany surface.
"Founder Brooks?" Marcus repeated, his voice dropping into a sharp, disbelieving whisper. "Henry Brooks? Are you insane? Henry Brooks hasn't set foot in a Brooks International property since his wife died six years ago! He lives like a hermit in the mountains!"
"Sir, I'm telling you, it's him," the security chief stammered. "He's currently standing in the grand dining room, and he just had a direct satellite call patched through to my office instructing me to assemble the regional executive board in the main boardroom within ten minutes. Sir... he sounds furious."
Marcus felt a cold, slick wave of sweat break out across the back of his neck.
For six years, Marcus had quietly consolidated power while the founder remained isolated in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Marcus had dismantled Eleanor Brooks’s pet philanthropic programs, replaced veteran staff with cheap, compliant corporate drones, and turned The Grand Brooks into an aggressive, hyper-profitable luxury machine that squeezed every nickel out of its patrons while cutting operational costs to the bone.
May you like
If Henry Brooks was back—if the old man had somehow seen what had become of his empire—Marcus’s entire career, his stock options, and his multi-million-dollar salary were moments away from turning to ash.
"Lock down the elevators," Marcus barked, leaping out of his leather chair with frantic panic. "Do not let him leave the dining room! I'm coming down right now!"
