Chapter 7 - The Dominoes Fall
“You insolent little ungrateful brat!” Arthur screamed through the phone, his voice cracking with pure desperation. “I am your father! If this company goes down, your family is ruined! You won’t have a dime to your name!”
“I already don't have a dime to my name, Arthur,” I said, not flinching. “You made sure of that when you paid me minimum wage while writing off Madison’s sports car as a business expense. Call your Vice President of Logistics. I’m sure she has a plan.”
I tapped the red end-call button.
The penthouse office fell silent, save for the soft hum of the city thirty floors below. Dominic leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach.
“You handled that well,” he said.
“I didn't want the company to burn, Dominic,” I admitted, feeling a sudden, heavy ache behind my ribs. “My mother’s blood is in those piers. She designed the dry-dock drainage system with her own compass.”
“It’s not burning, Claire. It’s being pruned,” Dominic said firmly. He stood up and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the distant gray docks. “Arthur’s debt isn't just with the Philadelphia equity group. Two hours ago, I purchased all of Whitmore Freight’s secondary promissory notes from the First National Bank of Maryland. I now own eighty-two percent of his outstanding liabilities.”
I looked at him in surprise. “You bought his debt?”
“I bought his throat,” Dominic corrected quietly. “He has twelve hours before the port authority suspends Whitmore Freight’s commercial operating license entirely. Once that happens, the stock is worthless, the contracts are void, and the Philadelphia lenders will seize the family estate in Roland Park to satisfy the default judgment.”
“And Rebecca?”
“Rebecca is currently at the Bal Harbour boutique in Miami on a shopping trip, charging twenty thousand dollars to a corporate credit card that declined fifteen minutes ago,” Dominic said without a shred of emotion. “She’s about to find out what life looks like without your mother’s money.”
My phone rang again. This time it was Arthur’s private lawyer, Harold Jenkins—a man who had represented the Whitmore family for thirty years and had consistently looked the other way while Arthur stripped away my mother’s legacy.
I answered and put it on speaker.
“Claire?” Harold’s voice sounded ancient, weary, and completely defeated. “Claire, please tell me you’re with Mr. Vale.”
“I am, Harold. Mr. Vale is listening.”
Harold exhaled a long, trembling breath. “Arthur had a panic attack in the terminal lobby twenty minutes ago. The paramedics are with him now. He… he cannot manage this crisis, Claire. The port commissioners are revoking the deep-water permits at four o'clock. If that happens, Whitmore Freight is legally dead by sunset.”
“What does Arthur want, Harold?” I asked.
“He wants to surrender,” Harold whispered. “He wants you to come to the board office at three o’clock. He has agreed to sign whatever paperwork Mr. Vale’s legal team puts in front of him.”
May you like
Dominic stepped forward, leaning over my shoulder toward the phone.
“Tell him this, Jenkins,” Dominic commanded, his voice cold and definitive. “Claire will be there at three o’clock. But Arthur will not be signing a surrender. He will be signing an abdication. Have the entire board present. And tell Rebecca to fly home coach. The company jet was repossessed forty minutes ago.”
