Chapter 6 - The Fall of Prescott Capital
By 8:00 AM the following morning, Wall Street was in a state of absolute frenzy.
The financial news channels were broadcasting a single headline across their ticker tapes: Prescott Capital Operations Suspended - Federal Audit Initiated.
Inside the glass-walled offices of Prescott Capital on Wall Street, chaos reigned. Phones were ringing off the hook on every desk. Junior analysts were frantically packing their personal belongings into cardboard boxes, while senior traders stood near the water cooler, arguing loudly about whether their payroll checks would clear.
In the corner corner office, Graham Prescott sat behind his massive oak desk.
He hadn't slept. He was still wearing his Tom Ford tuxedo from the night before, his bow tie unraveled, his white shirt wrinkled and stained with dried scotch. His eyes were bloodshot, and three empty cups of black coffee stood on his desk.
The double glass doors of his office swung open.
Two men in dark suits stepped inside, followed by four federal agents wearing blue windbreakers marked with the letters SEC.
"Graham Prescott?" the lead agent announced, holding up a badge. "I am Special Agent Miller with the Securities and Exchange Commission. We have a federal warrant for the seizure of all digital servers, financial ledgers, and corporate records belonging to Prescott Capital."
Graham didn't move. He stared blankly at the computer screen on his desk, which displayed his company's primary bank account balance: $0.00.
"Where is Blair?" Graham croaked, his voice raw and dry.
Agent Miller looked at him with an expression of cold indifference. "Miss Whitmore was taken into custody at John F. Kennedy International Airport two hours ago while attempting to board a private jet to Geneva. She is currently being held at the federal detention center on charges of corporate espionage, wire fraud, and grand larceny."
Graham let out a hollow, bitter laugh. He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking as he began to weep hysterically.
Every dollar he had ever made, every contact he had ever cultivated, every scrap of prestige he had built over eleven years... vanished in less than twelve hours.
And it hadn't been destroyed by a rival firm or a market crash.
It had been erased by the quiet woman whose tea he used to complain was too cold, whose handmade clothes he had mocked, and whose silence he had mistaken for weakness.
Two federal agents stepped forward, grabbing Graham by his arms and pulling him up from his leather chair.
"Come with us, Mr. Prescott," the agent said. "You have a lot of questions to answer."
As Graham was led through his own trading floor in handcuffs, past forty employees who stared at him with unadulterated hatred, he looked up at the wall-mounted television screen near the entrance.
Live on CNBC, a press conference was taking place inside the glass atrium of 740 Madison Avenue.
Evelyn Carter stood behind a crystal podium. She was dressed in a tailored white silk suit, her hair styled with flawless elegance, flanked by the Board of Directors of Aveline House and representatives from the French Ministry of Culture.
"Aveline House," Evelyn announced to the world’s press, her voice steady and powerful, "is entering a new era. We are establishing the Marianne Carter Foundation—a fifty-million-dollar endowment dedicated to protecting artisan textile techniques and supporting female entrepreneurs across the globe."
A reporter held up a microphone. "Mrs. Carter! What about the acquisition offer from The Obsidian Group?"
Evelyn looked directly into the camera. Her dark eyes were bright, clear, and utterly fearless.
May you like
"The Obsidian Group," Evelyn said softly, "is currently under criminal investigation by international law enforcement. Aveline House does not sell its soul to thieves."
Graham closed his eyes as the elevator doors closed on him, plunging him into the dark basement of his new reality.
