Chapter 3: The Bleeding of the Beast
The financial hemorrhage of Prescott Global was not a gentle leak; it was an arterial spray.
Over the next two weeks, the walls closed in on Aaron. The stock market is a predator that smells blood in the water, and Jasmine’s systematic siphoning had finally caught up with the company’s ledger. The shell companies had drained the emergency cash reserves. When a routine quarterly audit flagged massive discrepancies in “overseas consulting fees,” the panic set in.
I watched the implosion from the quiet sanctuary of Nathan’s office, sipping black coffee, untouched by the chaos I was choreographing.
“The board held an emergency session at midnight,” Nathan told me on a Tuesday, reading from a secure message sent by our inside source. “They are threatening to vote Aaron out as CEO by Friday unless he can secure an immediate capital injection of eighty million dollars to cover the shortfall and appease the shareholders.”
“Eighty million,” I mused. “In three days. The banks won’t touch him with the SEC sniffing around those missing funds.”
“He’s a drowning man,” Nathan agreed. “And drowning men will grab onto razor wire if they think it will keep them afloat.”
“Call Richard Vance at Aegis,” I commanded, my tone shifting to ice. “It’s time to throw him the wire.”
The execution of the bait was flawless. Richard Vance, acting entirely as the faceless director of Aegis Capital, reached out to Aaron’s desperate CFO. Aegis offered a private, unpublicized bailout loan. Eighty-five million dollars. Enough to save the company, save Aaron’s pride, and cover the gaping holes Jasmine had torn in the books.
But the terms were brutal. We demanded astronomical interest rates, but more importantly, we demanded collateral. Not company assets—the board wouldn’t approve that in time. We demanded personal collateral.
“Aaron is balking at the terms,” Richard Vance told me over a secure conference call later that night. “He doesn’t want to pledge his personal equity.”
“Squeeze him,” I replied, staring out the window at the Boston skyline. “Remind him that without this money, the board fires him on Friday. Tell him the SEC investigation becomes public on Monday. Ask him if Jasmine’s affections are worth a federal indictment.”
“Understood, Mrs. Prescott.”
The next forty-eight hours were a masterclass in psychological warfare. Chloe texted me updates from inside the Prescott mansion. He’s screaming at the lawyers. He threw a crystal decanter at the wall. Jasmine is in his ear, telling him to take the deal, telling him they can buy the debt back next year when the new product launches.
Jasmine wanted him to take the deal because she needed the company afloat long enough for her to finish draining her latest set of phantom accounts. She was playing Aaron like a cheap violin.
On Thursday evening, at 6:00 p.m., my phone chimed. It was Nathan.
“He signed it,” Nathan said, his voice breathless with adrenaline. “Claire, the ink is drying right now. Aaron pledged all his personal shares in Prescott Global, his entire interest in the Prescott Family Trust, and…” Nathan paused, letting out a sharp bark of laughter.
“And what?”
“He signed over his claim on the Marblehead house as secondary collateral. He gave away everything to save his ego.”
I closed my eyes, letting a profound, terrifying calm wash over me. For three years, I had made sure his collar was straight. Now, I held the noose.
“Are the documents fully executed?” I asked.
“Ironclad. Filed and notarized. Aegis Capital now effectively owns Aaron Prescott.”
“Good,” I said, opening my laptop. “Because Aegis Capital is about to audit the books.”
I took the hard drive Chloe had given me—the undeniable proof of Jasmine’s espionage and embezzlement—and forwarded the entire decrypted package anonymously to Richard Vance at Aegis, and, as a courtesy, to the head of the SEC’s enforcement division.
“Nathan,” I said, checking my watch. “Draft a formal notice of default from Aegis Capital to Prescott Global. Cite the material breach of covenant due to gross financial fraud and missing capital reserves.”
“Claire, the ink is barely dry on the bailout.”
“I don’t care. The underlying assets were misrepresented at the time of signing. Jasmine’s theft constitutes a material breach. Call the debt. All of it. Due immediately.”
I stood up, walking to the closet in my childhood bedroom. I bypassed the casual clothes I had worn for the past month. I reached to the very back, pulling out a tailored, razor-sharp, midnight-blue Tom Ford suit. The kind of suit a predator wears.
“Where are you going tomorrow morning?” Nathan asked, hearing the rustle of fabric.
“Tomorrow is Friday,” I said, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were darker, harder than they had ever been. “Aaron has a board meeting at 9:00 a.m. to announce his miraculous salvation.”
“You aren’t…”
“I’m the majority shareholder of his saving grace, Nathan. It’s only polite that I attend.”
I hung up the phone. The reflection in the mirror didn’t look like the woman who used to polish Aaron’s cuff links. It looked like an executioner.
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