Chapter 6 - The Fall of Hayes Hospitality
By noon, the news hit the front page of the *Wall Street Journal* digital edition:
**HAYES HOSPITALITY OUSTS FOUNDER’S SON AMID INTERNAL FRAUD PROBE; CLARA VANCE-HAYES ASSUMES INTERIM CONTROL.**
The fallout was immediate, catastrophic, and completely predictable.
The stock plummeted forty-two percent in off-market trading before trading was halted by the SEC. Apex Financial issued an immediate notice of default, demanding the return of the twenty-five million dollars that had already been drawn down from the credit line.
Grant sat on a bench in Madison Square Park, clutching a single cardboard box containing a few framed family photos and an engraved brass desk clock his father had given him when he graduated from Columbia Business School.
His phone buzzed relentlessly.
Not from friends offering support. Not from board members apologizing.
The screen lit up with calls from debt collectors, private club administrators informing him his memberships had been suspended pending account settlement, and his personal bank notifying him that his platinum credit cards had been declined due to insufficient credit availability.
Then, Sloane’s name flashed across the screen.
Grant grabbed the phone, his heart leaping with a pathetic, desperate hope. "Sloane? Sloane, thank God. Where are you?"
"Grant, listen to me very carefully," Sloane’s voice came through the speaker, breathless, sharp, and cold. "The FBI just visited my apartment."
Grant’s blood ran cold. "The... the FBI?"
"Two special agents from the Financial Crimes Division," she said, her voice shaking with terror. "They served a subpoena for every record related to Vanguard Creative Solutions. Grant, they know about the consulting fees. They have the wire transfers."
"Sloane, don't say anything!" Grant panicked, jumping up from the bench, his cardboard box tumbling to the ground, the glass frame of his graduation photo shattering against the concrete. "Don't talk to them without a lawyer! I’ll get Henderson—"
"Henderson dropped us an hour ago!" she shrieked. "He sent an email saying representing us would create an ethical conflict of interest! Grant, I am not going to prison for you! Do you hear me? I am not taking the fall for your pathetic, bankrupt life!"
"You spent that money!" Grant screamed into the phone, pedestrians turning to stare at him as he paced erratically near the fountain. "You bought Cartier bracelets! You took your sister to St. Barts on that money! You’re just as guilty as I am!"
"I was an independent contractor!" she spat back. "And I’ve already called Clara’s lawyers."
The world seemed to stop spinning beneath Grant’s feet.
"What did you do?" he whispered.
"I offered them full cooperation," Sloane said, her voice dropping into a venomous, satisfied purr. "I told them I would hand over your private laptop. The one you left in my safe. The one with the real ledgers and the offshore account passwords."
"You... you stole my laptop?"
"You left it behind when you stayed over on Tuesday, Grant. Consider it my severance package. Unlike you, I know how to negotiate with the person holding all the cards."
The line went dead.
Grant stared at the black screen of his phone. A cold, bitter drizzle began to fall from the gray sky, soaking through his expensive wool suit, dripping off the tip of his nose, and running down his neck.
Across town, inside the executive corner office that had once belonged to him, I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, looking down at the yellow cabs crawling along Park Avenue like tiny, busy ants.
Behind me, the door opened.
Julian Vance stepped into the office, carrying a slim leather folder. "Clara. Sloane Bennett’s attorney just delivered the encrypted hard drive. Along with an offer to sign a sworn affidavit detailing Grant’s personal misappropriation of corporate funds dating back four years."
I didn't turn around. I kept looking out over the city that had tried to bury me twenty-four hours earlier.
"What does Sloane want in return?" I asked.
"Immunity from our civil suit," Julian said. "And an agreement not to pursue Vanguard Creative Solutions for the one point three million dollars."
I turned around slowly, a cold, elegant smile spreading across my face.
May you like
"Call the United States Attorney’s office, Julian," I said softly. "Give them the hard drive. Give them the affidavit. And tell them Miss Bennett is currently at her apartment on East 72nd Street, waiting for a deal that was never on the table."
***
