The CEO Nobody Knew

Chapter 4: The Art Student

Three days after the Golden Enterprise birthday party, Mac sat in his penthouse office watching news reports about Emrand Enterprise's stock price plummeting. Jane's family company had lost forty percent of its value in seventy-two hours, and financial analysts were predicting bankruptcy within six months without a major investor.

His phone had been buzzing constantly with calls from Jane, her parents, and even David Richardson, but Mac ignored them all. Let them scramble. Let them panic. They were about to learn what it meant to truly lose everything.

Marcus Webb knocked and entered the office carrying a thick manila folder. "The financial analysis you requested on Emrand Enterprise is complete. Also, I have an update on those mysterious stock purchases we've been monitoring."

"Tell me about the stock purchases first," Mac said, not looking up from his computer screen.

"It's more extensive than we initially thought. Someone has been quietly acquiring minority stakes in over thirty companies across Nixon City's business district. Textile suppliers, shipping companies, even the cleaning service that maintains most of the office buildings." Marcus set the folder on Mac's desk. "The purchases are all under different shell company names, but the funding traces back to a single source."

"Which is?"

"Thompson Bank."

Mac's fingers stopped moving on his keyboard. He looked up at Marcus with sharp interest. "Thompson Bank? The one that's been expanding aggressively over the past five years?"

"The same one. They've been very quiet about it, but they're essentially building a web of control over Nixon City's entire business infrastructure." Marcus opened the folder and spread out several documents. "If they wanted to manipulate market conditions or force companies into dependency, this would be the perfect strategy."

Mac leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. Thompson Bank, the name triggered something in his memory, but he couldn't quite place it. "What do we know about the bank's ownership?"

"That's where it gets interesting. The bank is owned by the Thompson family, but they're very private. The patriarch is a man named Harold Thompson, but he rarely makes public appearances. Most people don't even know what he looks like."

"I want everything you can find on the Thompson family. Financial records, business connections, family history. Everything."

"Already working on it," Marcus said. "But Mac, there's something else. The timing of these purchases coincides with several local businesses facing unexpected financial difficulties. Companies that should be thriving are suddenly struggling with debt, supply chain issues, and regulatory problems."

Mac stood up and walked to his window, looking down at the city sprawling below him. "You think Thompson Bank is orchestrating it?"

"I think someone is systematically weakening Nixon City's business community, and Thompson Bank is the only entity positioned to benefit from the chaos."

"Keep investigating. And Marcus? Be discrete. If the Thompson family is as powerful as you're suggesting, we don't want them to know we're looking into their affairs."

After Marcus left, Mac tried to focus on work, but his thoughts kept drifting to Thompson Bank. Something about the name felt familiar, almost personal, but the memory remained frustratingly out of reach.

By late afternoon, Mac found himself restless and decided to take a drive through the city. He often did his best thinking while moving, and today he needed clarity about his next steps with Jane and the growing mystery of Thompson Bank.

His route took him through the university district, past Nixon University's sprawling campus. Students hurried along the sidewalks carrying backpacks and coffee cups, their faces bright with the kind of optimism that only came from believing the future held unlimited possibilities.

Mac was stopped at a red light when he noticed a small café called "Canvas & Coffee" tucked between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop. Through the large front window, he could see students bent over laptops and sketchbooks, the walls decorated with local artwork. It looked like the kind of place where someone could disappear into anonymity, which suddenly seemed appealing.

He parked and went inside, ordering a black coffee from a barista with purple hair and multiple piercings. The café had a warm, creative atmosphere that felt completely removed from the corporate world Mac usually inhabited. Students sat in mismatched chairs at wooden tables, some studying, others sketching, a few engaged in animated discussions about art and philosophy.

Mac chose a corner table where he could observe without being noticed and pulled out his phone to review emails. But his attention was soon drawn to a young woman sitting two tables away, completely absorbed in her work.

She was beautiful in an understated way that reminded Mac of classical paintings, dark hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, delicate features, and an intensity of focus that made everything else in the café seem to fade into background noise. She was sketching something in a large pad, her pencil moving with confident, precise strokes.

But it wasn't her beauty that held Mac's attention. It was the exhaustion he could see in the set of her shoulders, the way she rubbed her temples as if fighting a headache, and the stack of what looked like bills and notices piled beside her art supplies.

Every few minutes, she would stop drawing and check her phone, her expression growing more worried each time. Once, she pulled out a calculator and began working through numbers on a piece of scrap paper, her brow furrowed with concentration and stress.

Mac found himself studying her with the same analytical approach he used in business. This was someone carrying a heavy burden, someone who understood what it meant to fight for survival. Someone who might be vulnerable enough to accept help from a stranger.

The woman's phone rang, and she answered it quickly, keeping her voice low. "Hello, Mr. Morrison? Yes, I know I'm late with this month's payment. I understand the interest is accumulating, but I just need a little more time."

Mac tensed. Morrison, was this connected to James Morrison from Golden Enterprise, or was it simply a coincidence?

"No, please don't do that," the woman continued, her voice becoming more desperate. "My father isn't well, and if you move him to a different facility now... Please, I'll have the money by Friday. I promise."

She ended the call and immediately buried her face in her hands. Mac could see her shoulders shaking slightly, and he realized she was crying as quietly as possible, trying not to draw attention to herself.

After a few moments, she composed herself and returned to her sketching with grim determination. But Mac had heard enough to understand her situation, someone she cared about was in some kind of care facility, she was behind on payments, and she was struggling to hold everything together alone.

Mac made a decision that would change both of their lives forever.

He stood up and approached her table, careful to keep his expression neutral and non-threatening. "Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, but I couldn't help noticing your artwork. It's really impressive."

The woman looked up, quickly wiping her eyes and forcing a polite smile. "Thank you. I'm sorry, was I being too loud on the phone? I tried to keep it down."

"Not at all. I'm Michael Clarke," Mac said, using his cover identity. "I work as a business consultant, and I was wondering if you might be interested in discussing a potential opportunity."

Her expression immediately became guarded. "What kind of opportunity?"

"I represent some clients who are always looking for talented artists for various projects. Marketing materials, corporate presentations, that sort of thing." Mac gestured to her sketchpad. "Based on what I can see of your work, you have exactly the kind of skill they're looking for."

"I appreciate the offer, but I'm not really looking for freelance work right now. I'm a full-time student, and I already have three part-time jobs."

"Three jobs?" Mac raised an eyebrow. "That must be exhausting."

"It's manageable," she said, but he could see the lie in her eyes.

Mac pulled out one of his business cards, not his real ones, but the fake identity cards he kept for situations like this. "I understand if you're not interested. But if you change your mind, the pay would be quite good. Good enough that you might be able to cut back on some of those other jobs."

The woman took the card and glanced at it quickly. "How good?"

"Good enough to cover whatever payment you were discussing on the phone, probably with enough left over to catch up on anything else you're behind on."

Her eyes widened slightly. "You were listening to my conversation?"

"I wasn't trying to eavesdrop. But it was hard not to overhear, and you seemed upset. I'm sorry if I'm overstepping, but sometimes when I see someone who's clearly talented and clearly struggling, I like to help if I can."

The woman stared at the business card for a long moment, and Mac could practically see her internal debate. Pride warring with desperation, independence fighting against necessity.

"What exactly would this job entail?" she asked finally.

"Nothing inappropriate, if that's what you're worried about. Mostly it would involve being available for various projects as they come up. Some might be creative work, others might be more administrative. The main requirement is discretion and reliability."

"That's pretty vague."

"I know. But I can promise you that everything would be completely legitimate and professional. And the compensation would be significant."

The woman looked down at the stack of bills beside her sketchpad, then back at Mac's card. "How significant?"

Mac named a figure that was probably more than she made in three months combined from her current jobs. Her eyes widened, and he could see her calculating what that kind of money could mean for her situation.

"That's... that's a lot of money for part-time work."

"It's a lot of money for the right person. Someone trustworthy, someone who understands the value of confidentiality, someone who won't ask too many questions about why they're being paid so well."

Something in his tone made her look at him more carefully, as if she was seeing him for the first time. Mac could tell she was beginning to sense that this wasn't a simple job offer, that there were layers to this conversation she didn't fully understand.

"I don't even know your real name, do I?" she asked quietly.

Mac smiled, neither confirming nor denying her suspicion. "Does it matter? What matters is whether you need help, and whether you're willing to accept it from someone who can provide it."

The woman was quiet for a long moment, staring at the business card in her hands. Finally, she looked up at him with a mixture of desperation and determination.

"When would I start?"

"Immediately, if you're interested. But first, I'd need you to sign some paperwork. Standard confidentiality agreements, that sort of thing."

"What kind of confidentiality agreements?"

Mac's smile became slightly more predatory. "The kind that would make it very expensive for you to break our arrangement once you've accepted it."

And for the first time since approaching her table, Mac saw a flicker of real fear in her eyes.