Chapter 8 - The Clean Sweep
The ballroom was virtually empty now, save for the caterers, my father’s security team, and the cleaning staff.
The five hundred wealthy guests had fled through the side doors, terrified of being subpoenaed or photographed anywhere near the Prescott family. The floor was littered with abandoned silk wraps, broken champagne flutes, trampled orchids, and half-eaten gourmet dinners.
My father took off his dark vicuña suit jacket and gently draped it over my bare shoulders. The warmth of the wool instantly cut through the chill of the air-conditioned room.
"You okay, Clara?" he asked, looking down at me with those steady, protective eyes.
"I’m more than okay, Dad," I sighed, pulling the lapels of his jacket tightly around my chest. "I’m free."
Marcus walked over, handing my father a secure satellite tablet.
"Mr. Vance, the liquidation orders have been processed," Marcus reported. "Vance Global has formally called in the defaulted notes on the Prescott Commercial Portfolio. The receivership filings have been accepted by the state supreme court. By 9:00 AM tomorrow, every asset carrying the Prescott name will be transferred under the custody of the Vance Sovereign Trust."
"What about the employees?" I asked immediately, turning to Marcus. "The maintenance crews, the leasing agents, the construction workers on the Hudson site?"
My father smiled faintly, putting an arm around my shoulder. "Tell her, Marcus."
"As per Mrs. Vance’s prior instructions," Marcus said with a crisp nod, "a contingency payroll reserve of forty million dollars has already been wired to an independent escrow account. Not a single worker will miss a paycheck. Their health benefits have been transitioned to the Vance corporate plan, and we’ve already scheduled a complete safety audit of the construction sites for Monday morning."
I let out a long, shuddering breath. That was the real reason I had stayed for so long.
If Prescott Enterprises had collapsed without a safety net, over four thousand innocent families who depended on their jobs would have been wiped out overnight by Randolph’s greed. By letting Randolph commit his crimes on paper and guiding the restructuring into my father’s trust, we had preserved the jobs while severing the parasitic head of the company.
"Come on, Clara," my father said gently. "Let’s get you home."
We walked out of the Grand Ballroom together, our footsteps echoing through the empty, cavernous space.
Outside the hotel, the cool night air of Manhattan hit my face like a baptism. The flashing blue lights had moved down the avenue, the sirens fading into the distant concrete canyons.
Waiting at the curb wasn't a fleet of ostentatious limousines.
It was my dad’s midnight-blue, custom-built vintage Shelby GT500, purring with that deep, thunderous, honest American horsepower.
Dad opened the passenger door for me with a theatrical bow.
"Your chariot awaits, Miss Vance."
May you like
I laughed—a real, unobstructed laugh that bubbled straight from my soul—and slid into the warm leather seat.
***
