Chapter 3 - The Dinner at Ostra
While I was being settled into a plush, king-sized bed in the sunlit east wing of my father's Concord estate, five pediatric nurses and two personal attendants fluttering around me, Ethan Mercer was leaning against the mahogany bar at Ostra, swirling a glass of twenty-year-old single malt scotch.
He felt like a king.
To his right sat his mother, Linda, wearing a fresh silk blouse she had purchased on his corporate card the moment they landed. To his left was his sister, Marissa, actively snapping photos of her caviar appetizer to post on Instagram.
“I’m telling you, Ethan,” Linda said, cutting into her sea bass with an air of refined entitlement. “You made the right call leaving her at the hospital. Women these days make such a fuss over childbirth. In my day, I was up cooking dinner forty-eight hours after I had you.”
“She was being dramatic,” Ethan scoffed, taking a sip of his drink. “Standing there clutching her stomach like she couldn't move. She just wanted me to carry her bags so she wouldn't have to deal with the baby alone.”
“It’s the teaching background,” Marissa chimed in, slathering truffle butter onto a roll. “Teachers are so used to being pampered with summer vacations that real life shocks them. Honestly, Ethan, I don't know how you put up with her family either. Her father is just some mid-level retired accountant in Concord, right? He didn't even offer to help fund the Newton expansion.”
Ethan chuckled, remembering the quiet, unimpressive man who had handed him a cold handshake at their wedding four years ago.
“Graham Voss is a nobody,” Ethan said dismissively. “He lives in some old house in the woods and drives a five-year-old sedan. Avery grew up thinking they had money just because her dad paid off his mortgage. She has no idea what real ambition looks like.”
He raised his glass. “To Mercer Newton. Opening next month.”
“To success!” Linda beamed, clinking her glass against his.
Before Ethan could set his glass down, his cell phone vibrated violently against the cloth napkin on the bar.
He looked down. It was Marcus, his head chef and managing partner at the original Mercer House in the South End.
Ethan pressed ignore. “Work. They can wait.”
Two seconds later, the phone buzzed again. Then a text popped up.
ETHAN. PICK UP NOW. THE BUILDING MANAGEMENT IS HERE WITH THE MARSHALS.
Ethan frowned, his brow furrowing as he excused himself from his mother and walked toward the quieter hallway near the restrooms. He hit dial.
“Marcus? What the hell are you talking about? I’m at dinner with my family—”
“Ethan, where are you?!” Marcus screamed over the phone, the distinct background noise of shouting and metallic clattering echoing through the receiver. “The Boston Sheriff’s Department just walked into the kitchen! They’re padlocking the walk-ins!”
Ethan’s heart dropped. “What? Padlocking? On what grounds?! We’re current on the rent!”
“They have an emergency eviction order signed by a Superior Court judge twenty minutes ago!” Marcus yelled back, his voice panicking. “They said the lease holder executed a forfeiture clause for default!”
“Default?!” Ethan roared. “I pay sixty thousand dollars a month on time every month to New England Commercial Holdings!”
“Ethan... New England Commercial Holdings was bought out two hours ago,” Marcus said, his voice dropping into a horrified whisper. “A private equity firm called Calder Voss Capital acquired the master lease. And they just called in a three-million-dollar cross-default acceleration clause on all your equipment financing.”
The air rushed out of Ethan’s lungs as if he had been struck in the chest with a sledgehammer.
Calder Voss Capital.
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but his brain was scrambling too fast to make the connection.
“That’s impossible!” Ethan stammered, sweat instantly breaking out across his forehead. “They can’t just seize the equipment! That’s illegal!”
“They brought three moving trucks, Ethan!” Marcus cried out. “They’re unbolting the Garland ranges right now! The dining room is full of customers and the marshals are clearing the floor!”
Before Ethan could comprehend the nightmare unfolding at his flagship restaurant, his phone buzzed with an incoming call on call-waiting.
It was his primary lender for the new Newton location.
Ethan’s fingers trembled as he switched lines. “David? Tell me you’re seeing this glitch—”
“Ethan,” the banker’s voice was stone-cold, entirely devoid of the warm, friendly tone he had used yesterday when approving a two-million-dollar credit line. “I’m calling to inform you that First New England Bank has frozen all business accounts associated with Mercer Dining Group effective five minutes ago.”
“You... you froze my accounts? Why?!”
“We received formal notice of an immediate lien filing from Calder Voss Capital,” David stated dryly. “They hold superior debt security on all your personal guarantees. Every dollar in your operating accounts has been attached. Your corporate credit cards have been canceled.”
Ethan felt the world tilt on its axis.
He staggered back against the wall of the restaurant hallway, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Five minutes ago, he was a rising culinary star in Boston, celebrating an expansion with a glass of scotch. Now, his flagship restaurant was being emptied by marshals, his new location was dead in the water, and his bank accounts were frozen solid.
“Who... who is Calder Voss?” Ethan whispered, his hand shaking violently against his ear. “Who owns that company?!”
There was a brief pause on the line. David sounded almost incredulous.
“Are you joking, Ethan? Calder Voss Capital is owned by Graham Voss. Your father-in-law.”
May you like
Ethan dropped the phone.
It hit the carpeted floor with a dull thud, the screen cracking right down the center.
