Chapter 2 - THE FALL OF HAWTHORNEThe walk down the gangplank of the Lady Victoria felt less like leaving a sinking ship and more like stepping onto a throne.
As my sandals hit the concrete of the Newport pier, flashbulbs blinded me momentarily. Local reporters and social media influencers—the very people Victoria Richardson had spent thousands of dollars trying to impress at society galas—were now swarming the police tape, screaming questions across the water.
"Is it true Hawthorne Leisure is insolvent?" "Miss Vance, can you confirm the foreclosure amount?" "Are the Richardsons facing criminal fraud charges?"
Elena walked at my left shoulder, holding a portable tablet displaying real-time updates from Vantage Capital’s trading floor. "The stock market opened down forty-two percent for Hawthorne affiliates. Board members are resigning via email by the minute. Your father’s old associates are running for the exits."
"Let them run," I said, sliding my sunglasses back on. "Freeze every secondary account tied to their personal trusts. I want every yacht, every vacation home, and every luxury vehicle cataloged by sundown."
Behind us, Richard and Victoria emerged from the yacht, flanked by two harbor police officers. Victoria’s makeup was streaked with sweat and furious tears, her designer sundress looking ridiculous against the gray concrete of the industrial dock. Richard looked ten years older, his shoulders slumped, his gaze locked firmly on the ground to avoid the cameras flashing in his face.
And then there was Liam.
He walked alone, five paces behind his parents, holding a single leather duffel bag. As he passed me, he didn't look up. He didn't yell, and he didn't plead. The reality of being a penniless adult in a city where his name was now synonymous with bankruptcy had finally settled over him like a lead blanket.
"Emily," a familiar, raspy voice called out from the edge of the police barrier.
I turned to see Marcus Vance—my uncle and the founder of Vantage Capital—pushing his way through the press corps with a warm, knowing grin on his weathered face. He wore his trademark rumpled linen jacket and held a paper cup of black coffee from Rowan Street.
"Heard you had a productive afternoon," Marcus said, handing me the coffee. "Though I told you six months ago that working the counter at a coffee shop was a terrible use of a Wharton degree."
"It gave me a front-row seat to human nature, Uncle Marc," I replied, taking a sip. "Besides, the scones are excellent."
"Well, the scones are going to have to wait," Marcus said, his expression turning sharp and businesslike as he gestured to a black town car idling at the curb. "The board of Hawthorne’s primary creditor bank is waiting for you in Manhattan. They want to know if you're liquidating the assets or keeping the portfolio for a hostile takeover."
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I looked back one last time at the white yacht bobbing gently against the pier, now bearing a bright orange Sovereign Trust seizure notice plastered across its polished brass railing.
"We're not liquidating," I said, opening the door of the town car. "We’re renaming it."
