Chapter 2 Vincent
VINCENT
“What do you mean, there’s thirteen point five billion dollars missing?”
The words slice through the boardroom, cold and merciless.
No one moves. Not even a breath.
The only sound is the low mechanical hum of the ceiling vent and the faint whine of the projector as it casts pale blue light across the long oak table. The chart on the wall looks clean, and clinical.
“Sir,” Edgar says finally, voice cracking on the single syllable. “We’re seeing what appears to be a pattern of micro-transfers. Small, unflagged payments—under audit thresholds—dispersed through secondary vendors.”
“Secondary vendors,” I repeat slowly, each word tasting like metal. “You mean ghosts. You mean companies that don’t fucking exist.”
He hesitates, throat bobbing. “We… haven’t located full registrations for all of them.”
The others avoid my eyes. The board full of men and women I’ve known for years sit stiff, silent, with expressions that look guilty by association. The faint rustle of wool suits, the tap of a pen. Every sound is too loud.
“When,” I ask, voice dropping low, dangerous, “were you planning to mention that Beaumont Incorporated has lost nearly fourteen billion dollars?”
Anita, my legal counsel, clears her throat delicately.
“We discovered the discrepancies this morning,” she says carefully. “We wanted to confirm the scope before escalating to your level, Mr. Beaumont.”
My level. As if there’s anyone above it.
“Congratulations,” I deadpan, the words scraping raw from my throat. “You’ve confirmed it. Escalation achieved.”
The silence that follows could split bone.
Edgar’s pen trembles in his hand. “Sir, we’re running forensic models now. It’s possible there’s a system breach. Someone cloning approvals, perhaps mirroring authorization codes across departments—”
“Or someone inside,” I snap. “Someone who knows where the cracks are. Someone I pay to keep them closed.”
I can feel my pulse pounding behind my eyes. The air feels thin, like breathing through glass. My tie feels too tight. My skin too small.
Anita folds her hands neatly on the table, like we’re discussing next quarter’s earnings instead of a goddamn hemorrhage.
“Would you like us to freeze operations in the affected divisions until we identify the breach?”
“No.” My voice is sharp enough to make her flinch. “You’ll freeze nothing. You’ll panic no one. Whoever’s doing this thinks they’re invisible—let them keep thinking that. I want to see the hand before I cut it off.”
Heads nod, shallow, fearful. Edgar’s pen stills.
“Understood.”
“Draft NDAs for every executive with level-three access,” I say, standing. “No devices leave this room. No unsecured communications. Everything is printed. Everything is face-to-face. You lose one document, I’ll know.”
The click of my pen as I cap it sounds like a trigger being pulled.
“And I want names by morning,” I finish, my voice a rugged, a lethal tone I learned from Cast. “I want to know who thought they could steal from me.”
I don’t wait for a response. The chair legs screech against the tile as I stand and leave, the sound like teeth grinding.
The elevator feels too small, too reflective. My face stares back at me in triplicate—pale, drawn, eyes bloodshot from too many nights pretending I could outwork a rot I didn’t see growing underneath me. The lights are too bright. My reflection looks like a stranger wearing my skin.
By the time I reach the lobby, my hands won’t stop shaking. I shove them into my pockets. No one sees the tremor that way.
Outside, the city of Austin sprawls beneath a dark, bruised sky. Frost on the sidewalks, the bitter sting of winter biting through my coat. The city looks alive, pulsing, indifferent. My city. My empire. My problem.
The driver opens the car door. “Airport, sir?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “Straight there.”
The word doesn’t sound right in my mouth.
The car hums to life. I stare out the window as the skyline falls away—glass towers reflected in glass towers, an echo of the same illusion. Somewhere inside one of them, someone is laughing. Counting stolen money.
And I can’t even breathe.
I press my forehead against the cool window. My reflection watches me—same jaw, same tie tightened at the throat, same exhaustion carved into the bones. I’ve built this company since I was twenty-one. I’ve bled for it, given it every piece of myself that wasn’t already promised to my family.
And I’ve failed.
I can feel it in my teeth.
By the time the car rolls up to the private terminal, my vision’s a blur—part exhaustion, part rage. The tarmac glows under the floodlights, silver and gold bleeding into the frost. An attendant greets me the second I step out.
“Good evening, Mr. Beaumont. The jet’s ready for departure—”
I nod, but I don’t stop. My coat hangs open, the December air biting at my throat as I stride past her and climb the stairs onto the plane. The attendants move aside, murmuring something polite, but I barely hear them. I just need a door that locks.
I walk through the main cabin without really seeing it.
Everything gleams—cream leather seats, polished brass, bourbon waiting on the counter.
My initials are everywhere, stitched into headrests and napkins, a gift from Cast last Christmas.
“For the king of the skies,” he’d said, since I am the main one who travels for work. It feels like mockery now.
The low hum of the engines vibrates beneath my feet, steady and calm where I’m not. I keep moving until I reach the small door at the back. The latch clicks shut behind me.
Inside, the bathroom is bright and sterile, all chrome and white. For a moment, the quiet hits so hard it’s almost merciful, and then the pressure behind my eyes rushes to the forefront, heavy and unrelenting, and I realize there’s nowhere left to run from it.
The mirror catches me in the overhead light. I look like hell. My collar’s open, my tie askew, eyes bloodshot and too bright. I press both hands to the sink until my knuckles go white. My pulse pounds so loud it fills the tiny space.
Thirteen and a half billion dollars. Gone.
Because I was too trusting. Too slow. Too distracted trying to play husband, father, brother, savior—pretending I wasn’t already sinking.
My throat burns. The word failure keeps circling like a vulture. I twist the faucet and let the water run until the basin fogs with steam. The splash against my face is sharp, cold, useless. Droplets scatter across the mirror, breaking my reflection into pieces I can’t put back together.
“What the fuck are you doing, Vincent?” My voice sounds small in the metal walls.
My chest tightens. Breath catches halfway. I brace myself on the sink, wedding band biting deep into my skin. The ring leaves a red dent that stings. Maybe that’s fitting—something to mark the damage I keep pretending isn’t there.
You built this family. You made yourself the center of it. And now? You’ll drag them all down with you. Let Willow see the cracks. Let Damien and Cast watch you fail.
The knock on the door makes me flinch.
“Mr. Beaumont?” The attendant’s voice is soft, cautious. “We need you seated for takeoff.”
I swallow, force my voice steady. “Okay.”
The water still runs. I splash my face one more time and watch the drops trail down my jaw like sweat. Then I reach for a towel, drag it across my skin until the redness fades, until I almost look like a man in control.
When I open the door, the hum of the engines swallows me. I nod to the attendant and take my seat by the window. The plane starts to move, lights blurring against the dark.
My hands won’t stop shaking. I shove them into my pockets and stare out at the night.
All I can think is how thoroughly, irreparably screwed I am.