Chapter 3 - The Summons to Beacon Hill
By two o'clock that afternoon, the rain had turned into a needle-sharp sleet that tapped incessantly against the diamond-paned windows of the Marblehead house. Inside, the long pine table was no longer a breakfast space; it had become a field hospital for the systematic dissection of Aaron Prescott’s empire.
Nathan Brooks sat with his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, three separate legal pads spread before him, his laptop connected to a secure hotspot.
"He wants a meeting," Nathan said, not looking up from his screen as he clicked through a PDF. "His attorney, Arthur Leavitt—old Boston Brahmin, seventy-two years old, still thinks women settle divorces for a country club membership and a house in Wellesley—sent a preliminary communication. They are offering to overlook the ‘malicious reputational damage’ caused by your Slack broadcast if you sign an immediate, joint retraction drafted by their crisis management firm."
Claire did not look up from her tea. "And if I don't?"
"If you don't, they intend to file an emergency motion in family court tomorrow morning alleging gross breach of the non-disparagement covenants within your prenuptial agreement," Nathan replied with a dry, humorless chuckle. "Leavitt actually used the phrase *'Mrs. Prescott will find herself stripped of all temporary spousal support, her housing allowance revoked, and exposed to substantial civil counter-claims for commercial tortious interference.'*"
Arthur Holloway, sitting in an armchair by the hearth, let out a short, bark-like laugh. "Commercial tortious interference? The boy cheated on her with a VP of Strategy in a hotel four blocks from his own house. Does Leavitt think a judge is going to award Aaron Prescott damages because his wife refused to facilitate his logistical convenience?"
"Leavitt doesn't care about the judge yet," Nathan said, turning his laptop toward Claire. "Leavitt cares about the 4:00 p.m. board meeting. Aaron called an extraordinary executive session. The stock dropped four point two percent between the opening bell and noon. It’s not just the sex, Claire. In the tech and financial sectors, an executive sleeping with a subordinate who reports directly to his compensation committee is an immediate governance catastrophe. Jasmine Cole isn't just a vice president; she was recently appointed to head their internal compensation restructuring initiative."
Claire set her mug down on the table with deliberate precision.
"He promoted her," Claire said softly. "Two weeks ago. He told me the board insisted on an internal hire."
"He promoted her so she could help him control the executive equity allocations," Nathan said, his pen tapping against the pad. "And now every major institutional shareholder—including the state pension funds holding Prescott common stock—is asking if Jasmine Cole’s compensation package was evaluated on merit or in bed."
Nathan reached into his briefcase and pulled out a manila folder with a red tab. He slid it across the table until it rested against Claire’s knuckles.
"This is the piece they don't know we have," Nathan said.
Claire looked down at the label: *Holloway Maritime & Industrial Capital / Apex Holdings LLC.*
"Aaron’s firm is currently in the final stages of closing a seventy-five-million-dollar syndicated mezzanine debt facility to fund their acquisition of the German logistics platform, Vossler AG," Nathan explained, his eyes fixed on Claire’s face. "Without that facility, Prescott Global defaults on their preliminary acquisition bonds on the twentieth of this month. If they default, Aaron’s personal share pledges—which he used as collateral to secure his own executive voting stake—get triggered by his creditors."
Claire looked at Nathan. "And who holds the senior participation notes on that facility?"
Nathan leaned back in his chair, a slow, predatory satisfaction spreading across his features.
"Your grandfather created Apex Holdings forty years ago through a trust in Delaware," Nathan said. "Three weeks ago, when your father noticed Aaron’s debt exposure creeping up in the regulatory filings, he had Apex quietly buy out the secondary position held by Credit Suisse. Claire, Aaron doesn't owe seventy-five million dollars to a nameless syndicate of Swiss bankers."
Nathan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
"He owes it to you."
Claire looked at the manila folder for a long moment. She didn't open it. She didn't need to. For three years, she had listened to Aaron explain market dynamics to her as if she were a child who couldn't balance a checkbook. She remembered every single dinner party where he had patted her hand in front of his board members, smiling condescendingly whenever she asked a technical question about their leverage ratios, telling the table, *"My wife lives in a world of oil paints and sea breezes; she doesn't have to worry about the brutal realities of liquidity."*
"He thinks I’m sitting here crying into my mother’s linen," Claire said, her voice dropping into a register that made Nathan sit up slightly straighter.
"He does," Nathan agreed. "Arthur Leavitt asked me if you could be available for a 'reconciliation and settlement conference' at their Beacon Hill house at six o'clock tonight. He wants it at the house because he thinks the domestic environment will make you pliable. He thinks being in your own kitchen will remind you of what you’re about to lose."
Claire stood up from the table. She walked across the room to the small hallway mirror, smoothed the lapels of her camel coat, and turned back to Nathan.
"Tell Leavitt we accept," she said.
Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Claire, you don't have to walk into that house. We can force them to come to my office in Boston. We can make them sweat through the night."
May you like
"No," Claire said. Her eyes were as grey and unyielding as the sea outside the window. "I want him in that house. I want him in the house he thinks he bought me, with the lawyer he thinks is going to terrify me. Tell them six o'clock, Nathan. And make sure Arthur Leavitt brings his entire file on my prenuptial agreement."
***
