Chapter 7 - The Headmaster's Ultimatum
The oak-paneled office of Headmaster Arthur Sterling smelled of old leather, expensive pipe tobacco, and corporate anxiety.
Shelves lined with gilded yearbooks dating back to 1920 stretched up to the high ceiling. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting multicolored geometric patterns across a Persian rug that costs more than most cars.
Headmaster Sterling slammed his desk phone down onto its cradle, his hands trembling slightly. He looked across his mahogany desk at Vincent Morgan, who sat in an oversized leather armchair with his legs crossed, looking as immovable as a mountain.
"You can't just bypass the admissions committee, Mr. Morgan," Sterling said, his voice rising in an agitated pitch. "Hawthorne Academy has a reputation. A standard. We cater to the city's elite families—founders, industrialists, politicians. We do not pull street children out of tenement slums and drop them into fifth-grade schools overnight!"
Vincent didn't flinch. He slowly lifted his coffee cup, took a sip of black espresso, and set it down with a soft clink on the saucer.
"Let's clarify something, Arthur," Vincent said, his voice dropping into that low, lethal baritone that had reduced Fortune 500 CEOs to silence. "The endowment fund that keeps this historic building heated, pays your inflated salary, and funds the new robotics lab doesn't come from the board of trustees' bake sales. It comes from my foundation."
Sterling swallowed hard, his face flushing. "That... that's not the point. The parents are talking. Mrs. Bell called me twice this morning demanding to know who authorized the enrollment of a ward of the state with no verified lineage or pedigree. If word gets out that a charity case—a beggar child—is sitting next to their children, the board will call an emergency vote to strip me of my position."
"Then I suggest you protect your position," Vincent replied coldly, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Because if I hear so much as a whisper of mistreatment directed toward Iris—from you, from the teachers, or from the parents—I will pull every single dime of funding within the hour. I will foreclose on this building, turn this campus into a municipal parking garage, and leave you and your board looking for jobs as parking attendants."
Sterling's breath hitched. He knew Vincent Morgan wasn't bluffing. Men like Vincent didn't make empty threats; they executed them with surgical precision.
"Fine," Sterling asserted, defeated, wiping a bead of sweat from his encounter with a monogrammed handkerchief. "She stays enrolled. But she has to pass the standard academic tracking exams next week. If she fails a single section, the board mandates immediate expulsion on technical grounds. I can't protect her if she can't keep up."
Vincent stood up slowly, towering over the desk. A cold, confident smile touched his lips.
"Don't worry about her academic performance, Arthur," Vincent said smoothly, adjusting his suit jacket. "Worry about whether your school is smart enough to keep up with her."
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With that, Vincent turned and walked out of the office, leaving the headmaster shaking in his leather chair.
Meanwhile, down in the school library, Iris was currently teaching three nine-year-old fourth graders how to calculate fractional probability using a deck of playing cards, while Henry sat beside her, proudly stacking poker chips like a Wall Street trader.
