Marcus’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Arthur Vance. Harrison’s uncle."
"Yes," Victoria confirmed. "Arthur knows your mother is flying in for her surgery at Columbia Medical. He purposely accelerated the vote to coincide with her arrival time, betting that you will be distracted at the hospital and unable to attend the emergency board session at the World Trade Center."
Marcus stared at the data on his screen. Arthur Vance was a relic of old-money Wall Street—a ruthless, predatory financier who had been trying to launch a hostile takeover of Apex Horizon’s North American assets for three years. He was a man who viewed human beings as line items on a balance sheet and believed that money bought absolute immunity.
"How many board seats does Arthur currently control?" Marcus asked quietly.
"He secured the backing of the European pension funds yesterday," Victoria reported grimly. "That gives him forty-eight percent of the voting power. If he manages to sway the Japanese sovereign wealth representative, Kenji Sato, he will hit fifty-two percent. If that happens, he can force a restructuring clause that strips you of your veto power over the healthcare asset portfolio."
Marcus leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers forming a quiet pyramid beneath his chin.
The healthcare asset portfolio contained the specialized bio-tech division that owned the patent for the revolutionary cellular therapy treatment his mother desperately needed—a treatment that Arthur Vance was planning to monetize and restrict to high-net-worth private clients, effectively putting it out of reach for ordinary people.
"Sir Arthur believes he has orchestrated a checkmate," Marcus murmured. "He thinks my devotion to my mother is a tactical vulnerability."
"It is a vulnerability, Marcus," Victoria said honestly, her voice soft with genuine concern. "Your mother’s heart condition is fragile. The stress of the travel alone is risky. If you leave her side at the hospital tomorrow to attend the board meeting, her anxiety will spike. If you stay with her, you lose control of the firm."
Marcus glanced across the aisle toward Suite 2A. Through the semi-open privacy door, he could see his mother’s peaceful, sleeping face.
He remembered her standing in the muddy rice fields of Nam Dinh, her hands bleeding from the sharp grass, refusing to rest so that she could buy him his first mathematics textbook. He remembered her skipping meals for days, pretending she wasn't hungry, just so he could afford the bus fare to the national olympiad in Hanoi.
Arthur Vance thought that love was a weakness to be exploited. He didn't understand that for Marcus Duong, that love was the very source of his terrifying, unshakeable strength.
"Arthur Vance has forgotten who built this empire," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a low, metallic register that sent a shiver down Victoria’s spine through the screen. "He thinks he is playing chess against a corporate executive. He doesn't realize he is standing on a trapdoor."
"What are your orders?" Victoria asked, her pen poised over her tablet.
"Contact Kenji Sato immediately," Marcus commanded. "Tell him I am granting his family’s foundation exclusive distribution rights for our green-energy grid technology in East Asia—on one condition."
Victoria smiled widely, her eyes gleaming with tactical appreciation. "Condition being that he votes his four percent proxy block strictly with you tomorrow."
"Precisely," Marcus said. "That seals our fifty-two percent majority before the board meeting even convenes."
"And what about Arthur Vance himself?"
"Do not warn him," Marcus said coldly. "Let him prepare his champagne. Let him walk into that boardroom tomorrow at three o'clock believing he has won. I want him at the peak of his arrogance when I walk through those double doors."
"Understood," Victoria said. "I will have the medical transport team waiting on the tarmac at JFK. The police escort is secured. Your mother will be moved directly into the VIP surgical wing at Columbia with top-tier security."
"Good," Marcus said. "I will handle Arthur Vance personally."
Marcus disconnected the call. He closed his laptop screen, leaving the suite once again illuminated only by the dim blue ambient light of the cabin floor.
He stood up, walked quietly across the carpeted aisle, and stepped into Suite 2A. He stood over his mother, gently adjusting the heavy cashmere blanket that had slipped slightly off her shoulder.
Mrs. Duong stirred gently, her eyes fluttering open. She looked up at her son, her vision slightly blurry from sleep.
"Marcus?" she whispered in Vietnamese. "Are we there yet?"
"Not yet, Mother," Marcus replied softy, sitting on the edge of her suite cushion and kissing her weathered forehead. "We are still high above the clouds. Go back to sleep."
"You look tired, my son," she said softly, reaching up to touch his face with a warm, gentle hand. "You work too hard. Do not let the world make your heart cold."
Marcus squeezed her hand, feeling the quiet, immense power of her unconditional love. "My heart is warm, Mother. Because of you."
"Good," she murmured, her eyes closing again as sleep reclaimed her. "That is all that matters."
Marcus sat in the dark, holding his mother’s hand, listening to the deep, steady roar of the jet engines carrying them through the night toward New York City—where an empire was waiting to be defended, and a traitor was about to be destroyed.