Chapter 7 - THE FAMILY RECKONINGWithin twenty minutes of Sloane’s departure, my brother Mason was sitting across from me in my private study, staring down at the documents spread out over the mahogany desk.
The room was dead silent. The only sound was the faint ticking of an antique grandfather clock in the corner.
Mason’s face had gone completely pale, his jaw clenched so tightly I thought his teeth might shatter. For a man who was always cool, collected, and calculating, seeing the name Marcus Hartwell attached to treasonous financial blueprints was a bridge too far.
"Marcus," Mason whispered, his voice dangerously low. "That ungrateful, parasitic bastard. We brought him into the firm when his own father went bankrupt. We gave him a seat at the table, a six-figure salary, and a share of the portfolio."
"And he traded it all to become Preston’s junior partner in destroying us," I said coldly, leaning back in my leather chair. "Preston wasn't just building an empire for himself, Mason. He was planning to stage a corporate coup against our entire family by the end of the year."
Mason looked up, his eyes blazing with a cold, terrifying fury. "Where is Marcus right now?"
"He’s currently hosting a private dinner with three of our major regional investors at Le Bernardin," I replied, checking the calendar notification on my iPad. "Celebrating the upcoming quarterly projections—projections that were supposed to give him enough leverage to call an emergency shareholder vote next week."
Mason stood up so fast his chair screeched against the hardwood floor. "Let’s go crash a dinner party."
"No, Mason," I said, standing up and smoothing down my blazer. "We aren't going to crash it. We’re going to invite them all here."
By 9:30 PM, my penthouse living room had been transformed into an impromptu corporate tribunal.
Arthur Vance and two senior litigation attorneys from Summit Ridge Bank stood near the windows. My father—who had rushed over from his estate in Westchester as soon as Mason called him—sat in the center wingback chair, his face carved from granite, looking older and far more dangerous than he had in years.
And walking through the double glass doors, flanked by security and looking thoroughly confused, was my cousin Marcus, alongside three of our most prominent board investors.
"What is the meaning of this?" Marcus demanded, forcing an arrogant, nervous smile as he walked into the room. "Eleanor? Uncle Richard? Mason? Is this some kind of sick family intervention? I have guests—"
"Shut your mouth, Marcus," my father said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the absolute, crushing weight of a patriarch who had ruled Wall Street for forty years.
Marcus stopped dead in his tracks, his smile evaporating. "Uncle Richard, I don't know what—"
Mason stepped forward, slamming the manila dossier right onto the coffee table in front of him.
"Take a look at page fourteen, cousin," Mason said smoothly. "That’s your signature authorizing the unauthorized equity transfer from the Hartwell Family Trust to Apex Capital. Shall we call the federal prosecutor right now, or would you prefer to confess in front of our investors first?"
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Marcus stared down at the papers, his face turning the color of curdled milk. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His knees buckled slightly, and he dropped heavily onto the edge of the sofa, completely undone.
The investors looked around the room in absolute horror, realizing in real-time that they had walked straight into the middle of a high-stakes corporate execution.
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