His finger stopped on a specific entry. Elara Vance. The venture capitalist who had just finalized the sale of her tech firm for nine figures. The notes on her profile were explicitly clear: Extremely private. Low-profile. Prefers zero fanfare.
Arthur glanced at his desk monitor, which displayed the live security feeds of the lobby. He saw the VIP counter. He saw the flash of Chloe’s red silk blouse. And then, he saw the woman standing opposite her—a woman in a faded grey hoodie, matching the exact physical description of the billionaire he was supposed to be personally escorting into a private vault.
As Arthur watched the screen, he saw Chloe’s hands move violently, tearing a piece of paper in half. A cold, paralyzing wave of dread washed over him. The blood drained from his face. He didn't need audio to know exactly what catastrophic error had just occurred.
Arthur bolted from his leather chair so fast it tipped backward, crashing into the mahogany bookshelf. He burst out of his office, abandoning all executive decorum. He bypassed the elevators, throwing open the door to the emergency stairwell and taking the steps two at a time.
He was impeccably dressed in a sharp, three-piece navy blue suit paired with a gold silk tie. He was the picture of corporate authority, but right now, his polished armor was betrayed by a look of sheer, unadulterated panic. He hit the lobby floor running, the urgent, rhythmic clicking of his leather dress shoes shattering the quiet hum of the bank.