Chapter 3 - The Red Carpet Fracture
Seven thousand miles away, the morning sun was rising over the Seine.
Aaron Prescott stood in the grand lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel George V, his tailored Tom Ford suit hugging his shoulders perfectly. His mother, Evelyn, was draped in a pastel tweed coat, her neck adorned with an antique diamond-and-sapphire necklace that belonged to my grandmother—a piece she had borrowed for a charity gala two years ago and conveniently forgotten to return.
Beside Aaron, Jasmine looked radiant. She wore an ivory sheath dress that screamed executive chic, holding an iPad with an embossed Prescott Technologies leather sleeve.
"Mr. Prescott," the hotel manager said, bowing with exaggerated deference. "We are honored to welcome you. However, there appears to be a slight irregularity with the primary card on file for the Presidential Suite and the executive annex."
Aaron waved a dismissive hand, not even bothering to look at the manager. "Nonsense. Run the black card again. It has a five-million-dollar rolling limit."
"We did, Monsieur Prescott. Three times. The transaction was declined with an administrative freeze code originating from Lumina Financial."
Aaron frowned, his brow furrowing. "Lumina? That’s just our treasury holding entity. There must be a glitch in the overseas clearing system. Jasmine, use the backup corporate account."
Jasmine tapped her tablet quickly, then pulled a platinum corporate card from her purse and handed it over with a flirtatious wink. "Try this one, please. Mr. Prescott shouldn't be kept waiting before his big keynote."
The manager swiped the second card. The machine let out three shrill, negative beeps.
A red banner flashed across the terminal: *ACCOUNT TERMINATED BY MASTER TRUSTEE.*
"I am terribly sorry, Monsieur," the manager said, his polite tone cooling by several degrees. "Both accounts have been revoked. We cannot issue the keys to the Presidential Suite without an alternative, fully verified form of payment. The rate for the wing is twenty-eight thousand euros per night."
Evelyn gasped, clutching her pearls. "How dare you! Do you know who my son is? He is Aaron Prescott! His face is on the cover of *Forbes* this month!"
Several international guests turned to look. Among them were tech executives and venture capitalists who recognized Aaron immediately. Whispers began to ripple across the gilded lobby.
"Mother, quiet," Aaron hissed under his breath, his face flushing crimson. He pulled out his personal American Express Centurion card and slapped it onto the counter. "Put it on this. We have an international press conference in two hours, and I will not be humiliated in the lobby."
The card went through, but Aaron’s hands were visibly shaking as he took the room key.
"Jasmine," he snapped, his voice tight. "Call the finance department in New York right now. Find out why the Lumina accounts are locked. If the accounting team made an administrative error during our travel window, I want the chief financial officer fired by noon."
"Right away, Aaron," Jasmine whispered, stepping closer and placing a soothing hand on his chest. "Don’t let this upset you. Today is your day. The whole world is waiting to see what you’ve built. That’s what matters."
Aaron exhaled, forcing a confident smirk back onto his face. "You're right. It’s just an administrative hiccup. Probably Alyssa forgot to sign the quarterly operational waiver before she threw her little fit at the airport."
"Honestly, Aaron," Evelyn chimed in as they rode the gilded elevator up to the suite, "that girl has always been an anchor around your neck. Zero ambition, zero presence. She doesn't understand the pressures of true greatness. Look at Jasmine—she worked all night to ensure your slides were perfect, while Alyssa cried over a seat on a plane. The difference between class and mere entitlement is staggering."
Aaron nodded, his vanity soothing the prickle of unease in his gut. "When we return to New York, Mother, things are going to change. Alyssa needs to understand that Prescott Technologies belongs to me. She is a passenger in this life, not the driver."
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Downstairs, waiting in the lobby, were three men in dark charcoal suits carrying leather briefcases bearing the seal of the Paris Commercial Court. They did not check in. They simply took seats near the entrance of the ballroom where the Global Tech Convergence Summit was about to begin.
***
