Chapter 3 - The Prescott Family Summit
By Monday afternoon, the crisis inside the Prescott household had reached nuclear levels.
Paul Prescott realized very quickly that a wedding to a billionaire family meant nothing if the billionaire family decided to erase you from existence. His commercial real estate empire was built on leverage, debt, and the golden reputation of my backing. Without Vantage Capital, Paul’s lenders were already calling in their notes, and his investors were threatening lawsuits.
At 3:00 PM, my private secretary called from the Vantage Capital headquarters downtown.
“Mr. Vance,” she said, her voice formal. “Mr. Paul Prescott is downstairs in the lobby. He demanded an immediate audience. He’s flanked by his lawyers and your son.”
“Did you invite them up?” I asked.
“No, sir. Per your standing instructions, I informed them that you were out of the office and not taking meetings. Mr. Prescott then stated he would sit in the lobby until security physically removed him.”
“Let him sit,” I replied coldly. “In fact, tell security to offer him a cup of coffee. He’s going to need the caffeine for a very long wait.”
“Understood, sir.”
I hung up and looked across the study in our penthouse suite, where I had set up a temporary home office. Catherine was awake now, sitting on the balcony reading a book, while Jennifer was busy scrolling through local gossip blogs that were already starting to whisper about the bizarre, abrupt fallout from the Whitfield wedding.
Less than twenty minutes later, my secure private line rang.
It wasn't my secretary. It was Paul Prescott’s direct cell phone number.
I let it ring three times before picking up.
“Ray,” Paul’s voice sounded ragged, stripped of the booming, confident executive tone he usually carried at country club cocktail parties. “Ray, what in God’s name is going on?”
“Paul,” I said evenly. “I’m surprised you found time to call. I thought you’d be busy managing your zoning issues.”
“Don’t play games with me, Ray! Your lawyers just pulled our construction financing. Half my contractors walked off the site this morning. My banks are threatening to call my notes by Friday. You’re trying to destroy my company over a family dispute?”
“Over a family dispute?” I repeated, my voice dropping an octave. “Your daughter physically assaulted my wife in front of two hundred guests, Paul. My son laughed about it and put his arm around her. That isn't a family dispute. That is a declaration of war.”
There was a tense, heavy pause on the other end of the line.
“Madison was out of line, I’ll admit that,” Paul said, his voice dropping into a desperate, pleading register. “She’s young, she was stressed about the wedding, champagne was flowing... it was a stupid mistake! We’ll apologize! Madison and Trevor will come over to your hotel right now and get on their knees if they have to!”
“Save your breath, Paul,” I interrupted. “An apology requires remorse. Madison didn't look remorseful when she smiled at Catherine in the mud. She looked triumphant. And Trevor didn't look remorseful when he laughed. He looked relieved to finally discard the people who built him.”
“Ray, please! Think about the business! Think about the jobs! You’re ruining decades of work over a bruised ego!”
“My ego isn't bruised, Paul. My family’s honor was trampled. And as for your business? You should have raised a daughter with manners, and you should have taught her not to bite the hand that feeds her whole family.”
“Ray, wait—!”
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I clicked the end call button before he could finish sentence.
I set the phone down on the desk, feeling an immense, cold clarity wash over me. The war had begun, and the other side was already begging for mercy. But mercy was something they should have thought about before they shoved Catherine into the black mud of the Whitfield rose beds.
