The boardroom of Wayne Enterprises was located on the 80th floor. It smelled of stale coffee, expensive cologne, and greed.
Twelve men sat around the long glass table. These were the vultures circling the carcass of the Wayne legacy. Leading them was William Earle, the acting CEO—a man whose smile was as genuine as a three-dollar bill.
"Gentlemen," Earle said, tapping his pen on a stack of documents. "With Thomas and Martha gone, the stock is plummeting. The market lacks confidence in an eight-year-old heir. I propose we vote to restructure the company. effectively placing full control in this board's hands until the boy turns twenty-five."
The other men nodded, murmuring their agreement. They were about to steal the company from an orphan.
Click.
The heavy double doors swung open.
Every head turned.
I walked in first, pushing a silver serving cart. I was dressed in my immaculate tailcoat, my white gloves gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Behind me walked young Bruce Wayne. He was wearing a small, perfectly fitted black suit I had tailored for him that morning. He looked terrified, but he held his chin up.
"Gentlemen," I announced, my voice cutting through the murmurs like a knife through silk. "I apologize for the interruption. But the Young Master felt he should be present for a meeting concerning his legacy."
Earle frowned, standing up. "Who are you? This is a closed meeting. Security!"
"I am afraid security is currently... occupied," I said pleasantly. (They were currently napping in the elevator, thanks to a very precise pressure point to the neck).
I rolled the cart to the head of the table.
"Get out," Earle barked, his face reddening. "And take the kid with you. Bruce, go back to your playroom. The adults are talking."
Bruce flinched. He looked at me.
I smiled—a calm, reassuring, predatory smile. "Go on, Young Master. Take your seat."
I pulled out the massive leather chair at the head of the table—Thomas Wayne's old chair. Bruce climbed into it. His feet didn't touch the ground, but his glare was starting to look very familiar.
"Now," I said, clasping my hands. "You were discussing taking control of the company. A fascinating proposal. However, I believe there are some... accounting errors."
Earle laughed. "You're a butler. What do you know about corporate finance?"
"A great deal, actually."
I picked up a stack of folders from my serving cart.
"Last night, I took the liberty of reviewing the company's financial records for the last ten years. It took me approximately forty-five minutes." (In reality, it took me ten minutes at super-speed, but I didn't want to brag).
I slid the first folder across the table. It stopped perfectly in front of the CFO, Mr. Henderson.
"Mr. Henderson," I said smoothly. "Page four details a series of shell companies in the Cayman Islands. Oddly enough, they seem to be funneling Wayne Enterprises R&D funds directly into your personal account. Embezzlement is such an ugly word, isn't it?"
Mr. Henderson turned pale. He opened the folder. His hands started shaking. It was all there. Every transaction.
"And you, Mr. Crane," I slid another folder to the man on the left. "You have been selling military-grade prototypes to unauthorized dealers in Eastern Europe. Treason is a capital offense, I believe."
The room went deathly silent.
I walked around the table, sliding folders to each man.
"Insider trading. Tax evasion. Soliciting illegal services. blackmail." I listed their sins casually, as if reading a grocery list.
Finally, I stopped behind William Earle.
"And Mr. Earle," I whispered. I leaned down, my mouth close to his ear. "You have been actively driving the stock price down so you can buy a controlling interest for pennies on the dollar. You are betting against the very company you are sworn to protect."
Earle slammed his hands on the table. "This is preposterous! You can't prove any of this! These are forgeries!"
"Oh, they are quite real," I replied, standing up straight. "And I have already taken the liberty of preparing copies for the SEC, the IRS, and the Gotham Gazette. They are scheduled to be mailed at noon today."
I checked my pocket watch. "That gives you exactly... twenty minutes."
Earle looked at the watch, then at me. He saw my eyes. For a second, just a split second, I let the glamour slip. He saw the abyss. He saw a monster that viewed him as nothing more than an insect.
He slumped back into his chair, defeated.
"What do you want?" Earle whispered.
"It is not what I want," I corrected him. I turned to Bruce. "Young Master?"
Bruce looked at the terrified men around the table. He realized, for the first time, that power wasn't just muscles. It was information. It was fear.
Bruce took a deep breath. "I want my company back. No restructuring. No selling. And... and I want to know everything you're doing. Every day."
"You heard the Young Master," I beamed, clapping my hands together. "The motion to restructure is denied. Furthermore, from this day forward, all major decisions will go through me for approval until Master Wayne comes of age."
I picked up the silver teapot from the cart.
"Now, who would like some tea? It is a Darjeeling First Flush. It pairs wonderfully with the taste of humiliation."
Nobody spoke.
"Excellent," I poured a cup for Bruce. "Drink up, Young Master. We have a busy afternoon. I believe we need to fire half of the legal department."
As we left the boardroom ten minutes later, leaving twelve broken men in our wake, Bruce looked up at me.
"You knew everything," Bruce said. "How?"
"A good butler knows everything, Young Master," I replied. "Information is the most dangerous weapon in the world. Sharper than any bat, deadlier than any gun."
Bruce nodded slowly. He was absorbing the lesson.
"Sebastian?"
"Yes?"
"Can we get ice cream on the way home?"
I paused. I looked at the future Dark Knight, the scourge of the underworld, asking for a sugary treat.
"Very well," I sighed. "But do not spill it on the upholstery."
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