Chapter 4 - The Hollister Ultimatum
Across town in the executive suite of Hollister Defense, the atmosphere was considerably colder.
Preston Hollister stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the forty-fifth floor, swirling a glass of scotch as he stared down at the East River. Behind him, Julian Vance paced nervously across the Persian rug.
"She canceled," Julian said for the third time. "Not rescheduled. Canceled indefinitely. Her office sent a curt email stating that 'strategic priorities have shifted.' Preston, if she backs out of the drone guidance patent merger, our Q3 projections are going to take a catastrophic hit. The board will eat us alive."
Preston turned slowly, his face dark with suppressed fury. He slammed his crystal glass down onto the mahogany conference table, shattering the stem and sending golden liquid pooling across the polished wood.
"She’s playing games," Preston snarled. "That cripple thinks she can humiliate me in front of the entire New York social register and then walk away from a three-hundred-million-dollar deal like nothing happened?"
"What do you want to do?" Julian asked cautiously. "We can squeeze her suppliers. Push back on the aerospace alloy shipments coming out of the Ohio plants."
"No," Preston said, a cold, predatory smile spreading across his face. "We don't go after her supply chain. We go after her foundation."
"The adaptive mobility grants?"
"Exactly," Preston nodded, walking over to his desk and picking up his tablet. "Marlo Hastings pours fifty million dollars a year into community rehabilitation programs and youth dance initiatives—like the very one where she met her little charity dancer last night. If we cut off the municipal permits for her testing facility upstate, and quietly fund a smear campaign questioning the safety of her experimental wheelchair designs... she’ll come crawling back to my desk within a week begging to merge."
Julian hesitated. "Preston, her father’s legacy in the defense sector is still untouchable to a lot of older board members. If we’re too aggressive—"
"Her father died in a fiery wreck in the Sound nine years ago," Preston snapped, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper. "And Marlo has been running his company into the ground with her touch-feely philanthropic nonsense ever since. It’s time someone reminded her who actually controls the defense grid in this country."
Meanwhile, back in Astoria, the front door closed with a soft click as Iris left for school, escorted by a friendly neighbor from down the hall.
Inside the apartment, the tension between Marlo and Calder was thick enough to cut with a scalpel.
Marlo remained seated by the kitchen table, her hands resting flat on the armrests of her chair. Richard Sterling had been banished to wait in the Maybach downstairs after trying to interrupt for the fifth time.
"You're a stubborn man, Dr. Wynn," Marlo said, her dark eyes piercing into him.
"And you're a stubborn patient," Calder replied, leaning against the counter. "Which is actually the only reason this conversation is lasting longer than two minutes."
"If I agree to your terms—whatever they are—what does this treatment entail?" Marlo asked, her voice dropping its defensive edge, replaced by the sharp, analytical curiosity of a CEO evaluating a high-stakes venture. "No media. No investors. Just us?"
"Just us," Calder confirmed. "And it won't happen in a hospital with fluorescent lights and clipboard-wielding interns. It happens here, in my makeshift therapy space in the converted garage behind my friend’s auto shop down the street. It requires pain, Ms. Hastings. Real pain. Not the ghost signals you’ve been ignoring. We have to wake up nerves that have been asleep for six years."
Marlo stared at him, remembering the searing, undeniable heat that had rushed down her thigh when his palm pressed against her spine.
"I don't break easily, Dr. Wynn," she said softly.
"Everyone breaks, Marlo," Calder said, his voice softening just enough to catch her off guard. "The trick is knowing how to put the pieces back together so they're stronger than before."
Before Marlo could reply, her secure satellite phone buzzed violently in her coat pocket.
She pulled it out and glanced at the screen. It was an encrypted alert from her chief of security at Hastings Avionics headquarters.
She swiped to open it, her eyes scanning the incoming data feed:
URGENT: Municipal zoning board in Westchester just revoked construction permits for the new adaptive mobility facility. Simultaneously, three major defense supply contracts are being audited by Hollister-aligned oversight committees. Financial markets opening in Europe are reacting negatively to rumored leadership instability.
Marlo’s face went completely bloodless.
Calder watched the color drain from her cheeks. "Trouble at the office?"
Marlo looked up slowly, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, icy brilliance that Preston Hollister had severely underestimated.
May you like
"Preston Hollister just declared war," Marlo said, her voice like grinding ice.
Calder pushed off the counter, walking slowly toward her chair until he stood right beside her shoulder. "Then I guess it’s a good thing you know how to fight dirty, Ms. Hastings."
