Chapter 2 - THE SEVERED VEIN
The Capital City Club sat high above Peachtree Street, its dining room a sanctuary of dark mahogany paneling, oil paintings of Georgia governors, and white linen tablecloths.
At table twelve, Benedict Gable sat back against his leather armchair, swirling a two-hundred-dollar glass of vintage cabernet. Across from him sat Rosalind Vance, dressed in an ivory wool sheath dress that accentuated her slender frame, a diamond-encrusted Cartier tennis bracelet gleaming on her wrist. Beside her chair sat a designer stroller containing one-year-old Leo, who slept soundly beneath a cashmere blanket.
“Did she actually sign it?” Rosalind asked, leaning across the table, her blue eyes wide with anticipation. “No screaming? No threats to call her father’s old cronies?”
“Not a single tear,” Benedict chuckled, taking a slow sip of wine. “She was so terrified of the scalpel she would have signed her own death certificate just to get me out of the room. The papers are already at my attorney’s office in Midtown. By the time she wakes up—*if* she wakes up—the divorce will be filed as an uncontested mutual agreement.”
Rosalind reached across the table and covered his hand with her manicured fingers. “You’re incredible, Ben. I told you she’d break. She’s weak. She’s always been weak. For fifteen years she held you back, pretending she was some grand martyr just because she couldn’t conceive. Now you have a real son. A real partner.”
Benedict beamed. He looked down at the boy in the stroller. Leo had pale skin and light hair, looking very little like Benedict’s dark-featured family, but Benedict had never questioned it. A son was a son. A boy meant immortality.
“To our future,” Benedict said, raising his glass. “To Gable Enterprises. This year we break fifty million in commercial acquisitions.”
“To us,” Rosalind toasted, her diamond catching the chandelier light.
The waiter arrived promptly with the check tucked inside a leather folder. The meal—Wagyu filet, caviar service, and two bottles of boutique Napa reserve—came to eighteen hundred and forty dollars.
Benedict didn’t even glance at the total. With the casual arrogance of a man accustomed to limitless wealth, he slid his matte-black American Express Centurion card into the sleeve and handed it back to the waiter. “Take your time.”
“Right away, Mr. Gable.”
Benedict picked up his espresso. “I spoke with the contractor this morning. We’ll tear down the guest bedroom in the Buckhead penthouse and turn it into Leo’s nursery. We can put the Italian crib by the floor-to-ceiling glass so he grows up looking at the skyline.”
“Oh, darling, that sounds heavenly,” Rosalind purred. “And Florence’s clothes? Her antique furniture?”
“I’ll have a junk removal service box it all up and haul it to Goodwill tomorrow morning,” Benedict said dismissively. “None of her family junk stays. We start completely fresh.”
Three minutes later, the waiter returned. He did not look relaxed. He approached the table with a stiff spine and leaned down, speaking in a low, discreet murmur.
“Mr. Gable, sir? I apologize for the inconvenience, but your card was declined.”
Benedict frowned, his cup pausing halfway to his mouth. “Don’t be ridiculous. Run it again. It’s an unlimited Centurion.”
“I ran it three times, sir,” the waiter whispered apologetically. “The terminal returns a code 04. Card cancelled by the issuing institution.”
Benedict’s face flushed pink. “Nonsense. The bank must have flagged the transaction because of a fraud alert. Here. Use the business mastercard.”
He reached into his wallet and pulled out a gold corporate card bearing the name *Gable Brokerage Group*.
The waiter bowed and stepped away.
Rosalind frowned slightly, her glass pausing in mid-air. “Ben? What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just some automated security protocol from Chase because I made a large down payment on a boat in Savannah yesterday,” he said, forcing a laugh. “Computers get jumpy.”
The waiter returned sixty seconds later, this time accompanied by the assistant floor manager. The manager held the gold card between two fingers, his face carved from ice.
“Mr. Gable. I’m afraid this card has been flagged as well. The message indicates the corporate account has been frozen and terminated by the primary trustee.”
A cold bead of sweat formed at Benedict’s hairline. “That’s impossible. I am the CEO of Gable Brokerage!”
“Sir, the system states the funding account has been liquidated,” the manager said, his voice quiet but firm enough to draw the curious glance of two prominent state senators dining at an adjacent table. “Do you have an alternate method of payment? We do not accept personal checks from non-resident members.”
Benedict’s hands began to tremble. He tore through his wallet, pulling out a personal debit card, a Visa platinum, and an emergency credit line. “Try these! Any of them!”
Five minutes later, the manager returned. Every single card had been declined. The debit account registered a balance of zero dollars and zero cents.
“Benedict,” Rosalind hissed, her face draining of color as she noticed the whispers spreading across the dining room. “What is the meaning of this? People are staring!”
Before Benedict could answer, his iPhone began to vibrate violently on the linen table. The caller ID flashed: **MOM - CELL.**
He snatched the phone and pressed it to his ear. “Mother, I’m in the middle of a business lunch—”
“Benedict!” his mother wailed from the other end, her voice hysterical. “The sheriff is here! The county sheriff and three flatbed tow trucks!”
Benedict rose from his chair, knocking his water glass over. “What? What are you talking about?”
“The factory! The machinery in the Macon plant! They’re putting chains on the hydraulic presses! They say the commercial lease on the building has been defaulted on and the equipment lease hasn't been paid! The foreman says the payroll checks bounced this morning! Ben, the men are walking out! They’re threatening to burn the yard!”
“That’s impossible! The automated wire clears on the first of every month!” Benedict yelled, completely forgetting where he was.
“The bank told your father the wire was recalled!” his mother screamed through tears. “They said the backing trust—some company called Oakhaven Holdings—issued a complete stop-payment and revoked our corporate indemnity! Ben, we owe four hundred thousand dollars by five o'clock or the bank takes the deed to our house!”
Benedict felt the blood drain from his head. His vision swam with black dots.
*Oakhaven Holdings.*
He had seen that name before. Years ago, buried in the fine print of the legal disclosures Florence had handed him when they incorporated his brokerage firm. He had assumed it was just a shell company her father had set up for tax write-offs—a dormant entity he was using to funnel his own profits.
“Ben?” Rosalind stood up, her voice sharp with sudden panic. “What is happening? Who is on the phone?”
Benedict hung up without answering his mother. He stared at the check on the table. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his money clip, and emptied every scrap of cash he had—two hundred and forty dollars—throwing it onto the table.
“We have to go,” he choked out.
“Sir!” the restaurant manager stepped in front of him. “The bill is eighteen hundred dollars!”
“Keep my watch!” Benedict snarled, ripping the platinum timepiece from his wrist and slamming it onto the linen. “The watch is worth thirty grand! Keep it until tomorrow!”
Grabbing Rosalind’s arm, he dragged her and the stroller out of the dining room, through the brass-trimmed lobby, and out into the cold Atlanta drizzle.
“Ben, you’re hurting my arm!” Rosalind shrieked as they hit the sidewalk. “What did your mother say? What happened to your accounts?”
“It’s a bank glitch,” he lied through chattering teeth, running toward the valet stand. “A technical failure. We’re going back to the penthouse. I’ll call my accountant from my desk.”
He handed his valet ticket to the young attendant. “Bring my Porsche. Fast.”
The attendant looked at the ticket, then looked back at Benedict with an awkward, apologetic grimace. “Mr. Gable? Mr. Benedict Gable?”
“Yes! Hurry up!”
“Uh... sir? Two men from a repossession agency arrived twenty minutes ago with a flatbed. They had a court order and a signed lien release from Gable Trust Management. They towed the Porsche Cayenne and the 911 Turbo ten minutes ago.”
Benedict froze on the wet pavement.
“What did you say?”
“The cars are gone, sir,” the boy said. “They left this repossession receipt for you.”
Rosalind dropped the handle of the stroller. She looked at Benedict as if he had suddenly transformed into a leper. “Ben... where are our cars? Where is your money?”
Benedict couldn’t speak. A terrifying, monstrous realization was beginning to dawn behind his eyes.
The surgery.
Florence hadn't been defeated. She hadn't been broken.
May you like
She had pulled the plug.
***
