Chapter 4 - The House of Cards
At seven o’clock the following morning, Marcus Marlowe sat at the head of the conference table in his corner office on the forty-second floor of Marlowe Tower.
He had not slept. His silk tie was undone, his collar frayed where he had tugged at it, and four empty espresso cups sat before him. Across the table, three of his chief financial officers looked like men waiting before a firing squad.
"Give me the numbers again," Marcus croaked.
"Sir, it’s catastrophic," the lead CFO said, sliding a tablet across the mahogany surface. "Mateo Vance didn't just call the bridge loan. He triggered the accelerated repayment clause under the covenant breach we signed last spring. By noon today, Vance Capital will demand three hundred and forty-two million dollars in liquid capital."
"We don't have three hundred million liquid!" Marcus roared, slamming his fist down. "Everything is tied up in the Atlantic City development and the docklands project!"
"Which Vance’s subsidiary also holds the primary liens on," the CFO added quietly. "If we default on the bridge loan, they seize the docklands by five o’clock. Our stock will lose seventy percent of its valuation before the bell rings on Wall Street tomorrow."
The door to the boardroom swung open.
Ethan strolled in. He was wearing clean clothes—a cashmere sweater and designer jeans—looking slightly hungover, but entirely unbothered. He held a takeaway coffee cup in one hand.
"Dad, what’s with all the emergency calls?" Ethan grumbled, slumping into an ergonomic leather chair. "It’s seven in the morning. My head is killing me."
Marcus looked at his son. For thirty seconds, the older man didn't move. He simply stared at the flesh and blood he had spent twenty-four years spoiling, excusing, and elevating.
Marcus stood up.
He walked around the table, stopped in front of Ethan’s chair, and delivered an open-palmed slap across Ethan’s face that echoed through the room like a gunshot.
The coffee cup went flying, splashing dark roast across the white rug. Ethan tumbled out of the chair, landing hard on his elbows, holding his reddened cheek in utter shock.
"Dad?!" Ethan gasped, his eyes wide. "What is wrong with you?!"
"You ruined us," Marcus whispered, his voice trembling with sheer hatred. "In ten minutes of drunken, arrogant stupidity, you wiped out three generations of work."
"Over some girl's hair?!" Ethan yelled, scrambling to his feet. "Are you insane?! She’s a nobody! Her husband is just swinging his weight around! Offer him five million dollars! Pay her off!"
Marcus grabbed the lapels of Ethan’s cashmere sweater, pulling his son’s face inches from his own.
"She is not a nobody, you brainless parasite," Marcus hissed. "That girl is Clara Vance. She is the granddaughter of Arthur Vance, the sole heiress to the Vance Maritime trust, and the wife of the man who holds eighty percent of our corporate debt. She has more money in her private checking account than this entire family will ever see again."
Ethan’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The blood drained from his face until he looked nearly translucent. "She... she was wearing an apron."
"She was doing a favor for a sick friend!" Marcus screamed, shoving him back against the wall. "And you shaved her head on camera! You laughed while your idiot friends filmed it!"
Before Ethan could respond, Marcus’s private phone began to ring incessantly on the table.
Marcus answered it on speaker.
"Marcus? It’s Tyler’s father, Robert." The voice on the phone was hysterical. "What the hell did your son do last night?!"
"Robert—"
"The FBI just showed up at my firm!" Robert shrieked. "They have a subpoena for Tyler’s electronics, and Vance’s attorneys just served us with a civil suit for twenty-five million dollars citing conspiracy to commit aggravated battery and civil rights violations! Tyler is sobbing in his room! If my company goes down because of your worthless son, Marcus, I swear to God I will testify against him myself!"
The line went dead.
Seconds later, another notification pinged. Then another.
Ethan sank down against the wood paneling of the wall, his hands shaking so violently he couldn't keep them still. "Dad... what are we going to do?"
May you like
Marcus looked at him with cold, dead eyes. "You are going to put on a suit. You are going to get on your knees. And you are going to Vance Tower to beg."
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