Chapter 5
The lobby was packed.
News crews had set up cameras and lights. Reporters jostled for position, holding microphones and recorders. Employees gathered at the edges, whispering to each other, watching the doors.
I stood behind a temporary podium that Helen had arranged, my hands folded in front of me.
Arthur was to my left.
Helen to my right.
Vincent stood at the back, a reassuring presence.
I took a deep breath.
I thought about Derek hitting me.
I thought about Sloane laughing.
I thought about eight years of being underestimated.
Then I stepped up to the microphones.
The room went quiet.
“Good morning,” I said. My voice was steady. Louder than I expected. “My name is Clara Langford Callahan. As of last night, I am the Chief Executive Officer of Callahan Logistics.”
A dozen hands shot into the air.
I held up a hand.
“I’ll take questions in a moment,” I said. “First, I want to address the article that appeared online this morning. The one written by Sloane Avery, quoting my estranged husband, Derek Callahan.”
I paused, letting the names sink in.
“Let me be very clear about who Sloane Avery is,” I said. “For the last eight months, she has been Derek Callahan’s mistress. Last night, I found her in my home, sitting in my chair, drinking my champagne, while my husband beat me with a leather belt because I dared to question her unauthorized use of company funds.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
“Sloane Avery was not a whistleblower,” I continued. “She was a senior vice president at this company, making six hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year in salary and bonuses, with a company car, a company apartment, and a company credit card she used to buy designer clothes and jewelry—all approved by Derek. She had no marketing experience. No qualifications. She had the job for one reason and one reason only: she was sleeping with the CEO.”
I looked directly into the nearest camera.
“And Derek Callahan?” I said. “He did not build this company from nothing. Eight years ago, when I married him, he had seven employees, two trucks, and more debt than revenue. My father, Charles Langford, invested the capital that allowed Callahan Logistics to grow. But to protect Derek’s pride, the ownership was placed in a family trust in my name. Derek ran the day-to-day operations. We let him take the credit. We let him be the face of the company.”
My voice hardened.
“And he betrayed that trust. Over the last eighteen months, working closely with his college roommate Mark Timmons—who until this morning was our Chief Financial Officer—Derek embezzled between seven and ten million dollars from this company. He siphoned money into offshore accounts. He paid his mistress’s bills. He bought himself houses and cars and watches that he couldn’t afford on his legitimate salary. And when he thought he had enough money hidden away, he planned to divorce me, leave me with nothing, and take everything he’d stolen to start a new life with Sloane.”
The room was dead silent now.
Every reporter was scribbling furiously.
Every camera was rolling.
“Last night,” I said, “my father came to my home. He caught Derek in the act of assaulting me. He presented Derek with the evidence of his crimes. And he gave Derek a choice: leave quietly and return what he’d stolen, or face criminal prosecution and the total destruction of everything he claims to have built.”
I straightened my shoulders.
“Derek chose to leave. But he also chose to lie. He chose to run to the press with his mistress and paint himself as the victim. He wants you to believe he’s a self-made man brought down by the in-laws. He wants you to feel sorry for him.”
I leaned into the microphones.
“Don’t,” I said. “Derek Callahan is not a victim. He is a thief. He is an abuser. And he is a man who would rather destroy the company that four hundred people depend on for their livelihoods than admit he was never as good as everyone said he was.”
I scanned the room.
“Now,” I said. “I’ll take your questions.”
Hands exploded upward.
I pointed to a woman in the front row.
“Sarah Jenkins, Richmond Business Journal. Clara—can I call you Clara?”
“Please.”
“Clara, you’ve made some very serious allegations here. Assault. Embezzlement. Do you have proof? Documents? Witnesses?”
“We have everything,” I said. “Bank records. Email chains. Security footage from my home last night—which, by the way, Derek installed himself, thinking it would protect him. Arthur Bennett, who many of you know from Langford Equity, has been conducting an internal audit for three weeks. Everything is documented. Everything will be turned over to the authorities if Derek continues down this path.”
I pointed to the next reporter—a man with a network logo on his microphone.
“Tom Carter, Channel 8 News. Derek says this is a hostile takeover. That you and your father waited until the company was valuable, then stole it from him. How do you respond?”
“Derek Callahan never owned a single share of this company,” I said. “Not one. The trust owned it from day one. He was an employee. A highly paid employee who was given every opportunity to succeed. But employees who steal from their employers get fired. Employees who beat their wives get arrested. Derek is lucky he’s only unemployed.”
Another hand.
“Lisa Moore, AP. What happens now? To the company? To the employees? Derek says you’ll run it into the ground because you have no experience.”
I smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
“Derek also thought Sloane Avery was qualified to run a marketing department,” I said. “His judgment is not exactly reliable. For five years, I attended every board meeting. I read every financial report. I sat in on every major contract negotiation. Derek might have been the one giving speeches, but I was the one in the room when the actual decisions were being made. I know this company. I know its strengths. I know its weaknesses.”
I looked toward the employees gathered at the back of the lobby.
“And to the four hundred people who work here,” I said. “I want you to hear this directly from me. Your jobs are safe. Your benefits are safe. The company is financially stable. We have more than enough capital to fix Derek’s mistakes. In fact, today I’ve already authorized Vincent Rao, our Chief Operating Officer, to begin replacing our aging delivery fleet and upgrading our dispatch system—investments Derek should have made years ago but chose not to, because the money was more fun in his own pocket.”
I turned back to the reporters.
“Callahan Logistics isn’t going anywhere,” I said. “If anything, we’re about to get better. Because for the first time in a long time, this company will be run by someone who cares about it more than they care about their own ego.”
I took two more questions—about the future of the Dallas expansion, about whether I’d be changing the company name (I wouldn’t—too much brand equity, and besides, the name belonged to the trust now too).
Then Helen stepped forward.
“Last question,” she said.
I pointed to a young woman in the back.
“Jamie Lee, The Virginia Independent. You mentioned the assault last night. Do you plan to press charges against Derek Callahan?”
The room went quiet.
This was the question everyone had been waiting for.
I thought about the belt.
I thought about the marks on my back that were still purple and blue.
I thought about Derek’s threats.
I’ll come back for everything.
“I am giving Derek exactly twenty-four hours,” I said. “Twenty-four hours to return every stolen dollar. Twenty-four hours to sign the divorce papers Helen Voss will be delivering to his attorney this afternoon. Twenty-four hours to go away quietly and never bother me, my family, or this company again.”
I paused.
“If he does that,” I said, “I won’t press charges. I won’t release the security footage. I’ll let him keep whatever dignity he has left. But if he gives one more interview. If he tells one more lie. If he comes within a hundred feet of me or anyone I care about…”
I let the threat hang in the air.
“Then I will burn every part of his life to the ground,” I said. “And I won’t feel bad about it. Because he started this war. And I’m going to finish it.”
I stepped back from the podium.
“Thank you,” I said. “No more questions.”
The room erupted.
Reporters shouted after me. Cameras flashed.
But I didn’t look back.
I walked through the crowd, Arthur and Helen flanking me, and headed back toward the elevators.
As we passed the security desk, I saw Sloane.
She was standing there with two security guards, holding a cardboard box with her name on it. Her designer clothes looked ridiculous in the harsh fluorescent light. Her face was streaked with tears and ruined makeup.
She had watched the entire press conference on the lobby TV.
She knew.
Everyone knew.
Our eyes met.
She opened her mouth to say something—to scream, to insult, to beg.
I didn’t give her the chance.
I just kept walking.
I didn’t look at her.
I didn’t acknowledge her.
She was nothing to me now.
Less than nothing.
The elevator doors closed between us.
***
By noon, the press conference was everywhere.
Every news site in the state had it. National business outlets picked it up. Social media was exploding.
And the verdict was clear.
Derek was finished.
Sloane was a joke.
And I—Clara Langford Callahan—was the woman everyone was talking about.
#CLARACALLAHAN was trending on Twitter.
Articles with headlines like THE BETRAYAL OF DEREK CALLAHAN and FROM KEPT WIFE TO CEO: CLARA LANGFORD TAKES OVER were popping up by the minute.
My phone rang constantly.
Friends. Family. Business associates my father knew.
I let it go to voicemail.
I was too busy.
By three o’clock that afternoon, Mark Timmons had signed his resignation and his restitution agreement. He had wired three million dollars back into company accounts and promised the rest within six months.
Sloane had been escorted out, and her invoice—totaling four hundred and seventy-two thousand dollars in personal expenses—had been sent to her apartment via certified mail.
Vincent had killed the Dallas lease, paying a relatively small penalty to get out of the contract. He had also gotten three quotes on new trucks and two proposals for dispatch software.
Helen had the divorce papers drafted and sent to Derek’s lawyer.
Everything was moving.
Everything was working.
And then, at four forty-five, my assistant—who I had inherited from Derek, and who had so far proven herself both competent and loyal—knocked on my office door.
“Clara?” she said. “There’s someone here to see you. Says it’s urgent. Says he’s an old friend of Derek’s.”
I looked up from the pile of papers on my desk.
“Tell him Derek doesn’t work here anymore.”
“I did,” she said. “He says he’s not here about Derek. He’s here about you. He says his name is Julian Croft.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Julian Croft?”
“He says he’s an attorney,” she said. “He says he has information you need to hear. Information that could put Derek away for a very long time. He says Derek came to see him three months ago. About something… worse than embezzlement.”
I froze.
Worse than embezzlement?
What could be worse than stealing ten million dollars and beating his wife?
“Send him in,” I said.
Five minutes later, a man walked into my office.
He was in his late thirties, with dark hair, a tailored suit, and eyes that looked like they had seen too much. He carried a single leather briefcase.
May you like
He closed the door behind him.
“Mrs. Callahan,” he said, extending a hand. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m Julian Croft. And I think you should sit down. What I’m about to tell you… it’s not good.”
