Chapter 3: The Bait is Set

Chapter 3: The Bait is Set

Christmas Eve at Blackwood & Finch was a study in forced festivity. Garlands of cheap tinsel were draped over cubicle walls, and a sad-looking Christmas tree drooped in the lobby, shedding needles on the marble floor. The usual cutthroat tension had been replaced by a restless, anticipatory hum. Most associates were already gone, escaping to ski chalets in Aspen or family compounds in the Hamptons. Only the grinders, the desperate, and the damned remained.

And Leo Vance.

He sat in his cubicle, the forged memo folded neatly in the inside pocket of his jacket. It felt less like paper and more like a block of lead, a tangible weight against his ribs. Every five minutes, he glanced at the clock on his monitor. 3:45 PM.

According to Harrington’s secretary, the old man’s town car was scheduled for 4:00 PM sharp. He was flying private to a remote fishing lodge in Patagonia. No cell service. No email. No contact with the outside world for three solid weeks. The window of opportunity was closing.

At 3:55 PM, Leo saw him. Arthur Harrington, trailed by his long-suffering secretary, strode towards the elevators, not even glancing at the bullpen. The elevator doors chimed, opened, and swallowed him whole. The king had left the castle.

Leo took a slow, deliberate breath. It was time.

He stood up, grabbing a meaningless file folder as a prop, and began the long walk to the corner office. The bullpen was a ghost town. A few paralegals were packing up, laughing about their holiday plans. Leo kept his head down, his heart a steady, rhythmic drum against his ribs. This was the riskiest part. Being seen near Sterling’s office at this exact moment could be damning later.

He reached the end of the hall. Sterling’s office was empty, the door slightly ajar. Leo could hear his booming laugh echoing from the direction of the break room, no doubt holding court with the last remnants of his sycophantic audience.

Perfect.

Slipping inside, Leo felt an immediate wave of revulsion. The office was an altar to unearned success. Framed photos of Sterling on a yacht, Sterling with a polo mallet, Sterling shaking hands with a minor European royal. On the corner of the polished desk sat a silver Newton’s cradle, a gift from a client, its spheres clicking in silent, mindless perpetuity.

Leo moved quickly. He placed the prop folder on a credenza, then pulled the forged memo from his pocket. He didn’t just place it on the desk. He placed it directly in the center of the leather blotter, angled just so, precisely where Sterling’s gaze would land the moment he sat down. A single, pristine cream-colored sheet of paper in a sea of mahogany. A beacon.

He was out of the office in less than fifteen seconds.

On his way back, he nearly collided with Elara Hayes as she emerged from the break room, holding two cups of coffee. She looked tired but still chic in a dark green dress that subtly matched the festive decorations.

“Whoa, watch it, Vance,” she said with a small smile. “In a hurry to get out of here?”

“Something like that,” Leo said, his voice steadier than he expected. “Just dropping off a file.”

She glanced past him toward the corner offices. “For Sterling? Brave man. I heard he’s in a particularly foul mood today. Someone spilled prosecco on his new loafers at the holiday party.”

“A tragedy for the ages,” Leo deadpanned.

Elara laughed, a genuine, warm sound that felt out of place in the sterile hallway. She offered him one of the coffee cups. “Peace offering. For surviving another year. Merry Christmas, Leo.”

“Merry Christmas, Elara,” he said, taking the cup. Her fingers brushed his, and for a second, he felt a pang of guilt for the deception he was engineering. She represented a decency that he was currently sacrificing on the altar of revenge. But the feeling passed, replaced by the cold memory of Sterling’s smirk.

He was back at his desk, sipping the coffee, when Sterling Prescott III finally returned to his office. His arrival was an event. He strode down the hall, his voice echoing, "Alright, people, that's a wrap! Go get drunk and disappoint your families!"

Leo kept his eyes fixed on his monitor, feigning intense focus on a blank document. He waited. One minute. Two.

The roar came suddenly, a summons rather than a shout of anger. “VANCE! MY OFFICE!”

Leo put on his game face. He let his shoulders slump. He arranged his expression into one of weary resignation. He shuffled his feet as he walked back down the now-empty hall, a perfect portrait of a defeated junior associate being called to the gallows on Christmas Eve.

He entered the office to find Sterling behind his desk, holding the memo like a scepter. The smugness radiating from him was practically a physical force. He hadn’t just taken the bait; he was wearing it like a crown.

“Close the door,” Sterling commanded, a triumphant glint in his eye.

Leo did as he was told.

“Look at this,” Sterling said, waving the cream-colored paper. “Just came down from the fiftieth floor. A personal directive. From Harrington himself.” He savored the words, letting them hang in the air.

Leo feigned confusion, peering at the document. “From Mr. Harrington?”

“The man himself,” Sterling gloated. “Seems he has a little pet project for me. Very high-level, very sensitive. About the Ackerly Shipping appeal.” He tossed the memo onto the desk in front of Leo. “The problem is, I’m flying to St. Barts in, oh,” he glanced at his gold Rolex, “three hours. A real shame.”

Leo read the memo, his face a carefully constructed mask of dawning horror. He let his eyes widen as he scanned the lines of weaponized legalese. “Salvage rights? Triple-masted schooners? Sterling, this is… this is incredibly obscure.”

“Obscure, vital, urgent—Harrington’s words, not mine,” Sterling lied smoothly. He leaned back in his chair, the picture of magnanimity. “And since I’ll be… unavailable, and since this is your case, you get the honor.”

Leo looked up, his expression pleading. “But… my family is expecting me tonight. Christmas is tomorrow.”

Sterling’s smile turned razor-sharp. This was the part he truly enjoyed—the twist of the knife. “That’s a pity. Because Harrington wants this on his desk the day he gets back. And he made it very clear this is my top priority. Which means,” he paused for dramatic effect, “it is now your only priority. I expect you to live in the library until it’s done. Log every hour. I want to see a masterpiece, Vance. Don’t disappoint me. Or, more accurately, don’t disappoint Harrington.”

He stood up, grabbing his calfskin briefcase. “Send me your draft when you’re done. I’ll give it a final polish from the beach.” He clapped Leo on the shoulder, a gesture of dominance, not camaraderie. “Have a very Merry Christmas, Vance. Try not to miss all the fun.”

With a final, condescending smirk, he was gone.

Leo stood alone in the luxurious office, the forged memo lying on the desk. The performance was over. He straightened his back, the feigned despair evaporating like mist. A slow, cold smile spread across his face.

He picked up the memo, reading his own masterful creation. Historic precedents governing salvage rights…

Sterling, in his infinite arrogance, couldn’t possibly know. He couldn’t know that in his third year of law school, desperate to impress an eccentric professor, Leo had written a paper for an elective seminar. A paper that had won the coveted Wharton Prize for Legal History.

The title of that prize-winning paper? "Flotsam, Jetsam, and the Forgotten Clauses: A Deep Dive into Post-1899 Admiralty Salvage Law."

He didn’t need a library. He had the entire memo already written, stored on a dusty hard drive in his apartment.

The trap was sprung. The bait, devoured. And Sterling Prescott III was already a dead man walking. He just didn't know it yet.