Chapter 8 - The Collapse of Prescott Global
By 11:30 PM, the Meridian Heritage Gala had transformed into an execution ground for Prescott Global.
While I sat at the head table alongside Marcus Sterling and the directors of the European Central Bank, signing a new three-hundred-million-dollar green energy syndicate deal, Weston was frantically running around the ballroom like a madman, trying to find anyone willing to lend him sixty-two million dollars.
He approached his oldest fraternity brothers from Yale. They turned their backs on him. He approached the senior partners at Goldman Sachs. They signaled security to keep him away from their table. He even tried to approach Victoria’s father, the real estate mogul, who looked at Weston with absolute disgust.
"Get away from me, Prescott," Mr. Vance said coldly, shoving Weston’s hands off his lapel. "Your company is bankrupt, your reputation is in the gutter, and your ex-wife owns your shirt. And as for you, Victoria—"
Mr. Vance turned his sharp gaze onto his daughter, who was crying frantically behind him.
"You are fired from the family foundation," her father snapped. "You humiliated our name tonight by acting like a cheap mistress to a fraud. Get your things out of my house by morning."
Victoria let out a wail of despair, dropping her designer handbag onto the floor as she ran out of the ballroom toward the street.
Claudia Prescott was sitting alone on a velvet sofa near the coat check, her diamond tiara sitting crookedly on her lap, her expensive silk dress stained with scotch. Several socialites who had spent five years pretending to be her best friends walked past her, deliberately whispering behind their silk fans.
"Look at her... pretending to be royalty on someone else's money." "Did you hear? The house in Pacific Heights is being seized at midnight." "She told everyone her daughter-in-law was a maid. Turns out the maid owned her life."
At 11:58 PM, Weston walked back into the main ballroom, his tie missing, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hair disheveled and wild.
He stumbled up to the stage where I was finishing a glass of water with Marcus Sterling.
"Elowen..." he rasped, holding out his hands, his fingers covered in sweat. "There’s two minutes left. Please... I’ll do anything. I’ll fire Victoria. I’ll make my mother publicly apologize to you on television. I’ll get down on my knees and scrub every floor in San Francisco if you just give me thirty days extension!"
I looked down at my watch.
The second hand swept past the twelve.
12:00 AM.
My satellite phone on the table buzzed softly. A single text message appeared on the screen from my primary banking desk in Zurich:
FORECLOSURE EXECUTED. PRESCOTT GLOBAL ASSETS TRANSFERRED TO VANCE-CALDWELL HOLDINGS.
I picked up the phone, placed it back in my clutch bag, and looked down at Weston with a look of absolute, unshakeable calm.
"Time's up, Weston," I said.
Julian Cross stepped up beside him, handing him a fresh set of legal papers.
"Mr. Prescott," Julian said, his voice flat and clinical. "As of one minute ago, you are no longer the CEO of Prescott Global. You are hereby ordered to vacate the premises of the company headquarters by 8:00 AM tomorrow. Furthermore, a team of private bailiffs is currently changing the locks on the Pacific Heights estate."
Weston stared at the paper, his jaw hanging open, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
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"You... you took everything..." he whispered.
"I took nothing that was yours, Weston," I corrected him, stepping down from the stage and pausing beside him. "I simply took back what was mine."
