Chapter 10 - The Sterling Boardroom
At eight-thirty the following morning, the forty-second floor of the Sterling Capital Tower in downtown Madison felt like a war room.
The rain had cleared, leaving behind a brilliant, sharp October sunshine that flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the polished walnut conference table that could seat thirty people.
Around that table sat twelve men and four women in tailored suits—the executive investment committee of Sterling Bioscience Capital. At the head of the table sat Arthur Sterling, looking completely rested and wearing an immaculate bespoke charcoal suit. Reid sat to his right, dressed in a crisp white shirt, navy silk tie, and a dark slate blazer.
I sat to Reid’s right.
I hadn't gone back to Minneapolis. At six that morning, Reid had arranged for an executive assistant to bring three garment bags to the guest estate. I had chosen a tailored, high-collared navy pantsuit with clean lines and sharp shoulders, paired with low heels and my hair swept back into an elegant, professional chignon.
When I caught my reflection in the elevator doors on the way up, I didn't see the plain, awkward girl my mother had shoved out of the family photograph. I saw a thirty-five-year-old laboratory director who commanded multi-million-dollar clinical trials.
Arthur cleared his throat, and the room instantly silenced.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Arthur began, his voice carrying the effortless authority of a man who owned half the skyline. “You’ve all seen the morning headlines. The Vance marriage has been permanently dissolved prior to execution. More importantly, the patent portfolio submitted under the name Blythe Catherine Vance has been identified as fraudulent.”
A quiet, tense murmur rippled around the table.
An older board member with slicked-back gray hair leaned forward. “Arthur, the regulatory filings are already in the SEC pipeline. If we withdraw the application now, the FDA compassionate-use authorization for the pediatric leukemia trials will be suspended indefinitely. We’ll lose fifteen million dollars in preliminary staging capital, and the Saint Jude’s clinical partnership will collapse.”
“We’re not withdrawing the application, Harold,” Reid said, his voice ringing clear and steady across the boardroom.
Harold frowned. “Reid, we can’t proceed on fraudulent paperwork. The federal marshals were at the Vance brokerage two hours ago. Richard Vance is being arraigned as we speak.”
“We’re not proceeding on Blythe’s paperwork,” Reid replied, turning toward me. “We’re substituting the primary inventor block with the legitimate, authenticated intellectual property holder.”
Reid nodded at me.
I opened my leather portfolio and stood up.
For the next twenty-five minutes, the room didn't belong to the Sterling family, and it didn't belong to the multi-million-dollar investment fund. It belonged to science.
I walked the board through the core chemistry of the synthetic platelet preservation method. I didn't use notes. I broke down the cellular stabilization formulas, the cryo-preservation lipid buffers, and the precise immunological pathways that allowed donor platelets to survive four times longer than conventional units.
When Harold attempted to challenge the secondary Phase II trial data, I cited the exact peer-reviewed publications from the *Journal of Clinical Oncology*, detailing the cellular counts, the statistical margins of error, and the three-year patient survival rates from my Minneapolis laboratory.
By the time I finished and took my seat, Harold was staring at me with his mouth slightly open.
Arthur Sterling smiled—a slow, deeply satisfied grin that wrinkled the corners of his eyes.
“Any further questions regarding the viability of the intellectual property?” Arthur asked the room.
Silence.
“Good,” Arthur said, slamming his hand onto the table. “The board hereby approves the immediate substitution of Dr. Willa Vance as the sole inventor and principal investigator for the Sterling-Saint Jude’s oncology partnership. Furthermore, the five-million-dollar equity grant previously earmarked for the Vance family trust will be transferred directly to the Vance Research Foundation in Minneapolis under Dr. Willa Vance’s sole administrative control.”
A chorus of *“Aye”* swept around the table.
Reid leaned toward me, his shoulder lightly brushing mine. “Told you you’d own this room,” he murmured under his breath.
A genuine smile touched my lips. “They were easier than my doctoral defense committee.”
Before Arthur could adjourn the meeting, the heavy double doors at the back of the boardroom swung open.
Reid’s senior security director, Donald, stepped inside, looking grim. He walked briskly down the length of the conference table, leaned down between Arthur and Reid, and whispered something that caused Reid’s expression to instantly harden into stone.
Reid looked up at Donald. “Are you certain?”
“Positive, sir,” Donald said quietly, loud enough for me to hear. “The bail bondsman just confirmed it. Richard Vance didn't post bail for Eleanor.”
I frowned. “What do you mean? Who posted her bail?”
Donald looked at me with deep concern in his eyes.
“A private offshore holding company registered in the Cayman Islands posted the two-hundred-thousand-dollar cash bond an hour ago,” Donald said. “And the jet that just filed a flight plan from Madison to Zurich belongs to Julian Thorne.”
The name hit the room like a sudden drop in cabin pressure.
Arthur Sterling’s eyes went wide. “Thorne? What the hell does Julian Thorne have to do with Richard Vance?”
Reid turned to me, his hand immediately covering mine on the polished walnut table.
May you like
“Willa,” Reid said, his voice urgently low. “Your grandmother’s maiden name... was it Thorne?”
***