Chapter 3 - THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK
The rain began to fall just as Preston Hayes stumbled out of the towering glass lobby of Blackwood Hale & Associates, though the building now belonged to a phantom shell company controlled by Elias Archer. The icy New York downpour matched the freezing panic gripping Preston’s chest. He couldn't breathe. His tailored Brioni suit, worth more than most people's cars, clung to his sweating skin like a straightjacket.
He frantically pulled out his phone, his thumb slipping against the screen. He dialed his private banker, a man who usually answered by the first ring with an obsequious greeting.
“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is currently out of service.”
Preston nearly threw the phone into the street. He dialed his wealth manager. Voicemail. He dialed his real estate broker. Blocked. It was as if a massive, invisible hand had reached down from the sky and simply erased him from the financial ecosystem of Manhattan. Elias Archer had not made empty threats. The billionaire operated with the lethal precision of a military strike.
"Think, Preston, think," he muttered to himself, pacing beneath the awning of the building. He still had cash. He still had his charm. He still had the meeting at Le Bernardin. Tiffany was waiting. Tiffany, who looked at him like he was a god among men. He needed a drink, and he needed a plan to salvage the wreckage.
He flagged down a cab, tossing a crumpled fifty-dollar bill at the driver. "Le Bernardin. And step on it."
When Preston arrived at the legendary seafood restaurant, the maître d' gave him a long, measuring look. Word traveled at the speed of light in the upper echelons of New York society, and the hostile takeover of Blackwood Hale was already trending on Bloomberg terminals across the city. But reservations were sacred, and Preston was escorted to a corner booth where Tiffany Lowe sat, sipping champagne and looking like a million dollars he no longer had.
"Preston, baby!" Tiffany squealed softly, leaning over the table to kiss him. Her lips tasted like strawberries and expensive gloss. "You look terrible. Did the divorce go badly? Did she cry?"
Preston forced a laugh, a dry, hollow sound that scraped his throat. "It went fine, Tiff. Just a lot of legal red tape. Let's not talk about my ex-wife tonight. Tonight is about us."
He signaled the sommelier. "A bottle of the Dom Perignon P2, please. And we'll start with the caviar."
Tiffany beamed, her eyes sparkling with the reflection of the crystal chandeliers. "You always know how to spoil me. Did you get the keys to the Hamptons house? I was thinking we could go up there this weekend and celebrate."
Preston felt a cold sweat break out across his forehead. The Hamptons house. The one currently being padlocked by bank auditors.
"Actually, I'm thinking of selling it," Preston lied smoothly, taking a massive gulp of the champagne the moment it was poured. "Market is peaking. We can look at properties in Aspen instead."
Tiffany pouted slightly, but the promise of Aspen smoothed her features. For the next hour, Preston played the role of the titan. He ordered truffles, wagyu, and a second bottle of champagne. He laughed at her shallow stories about office politics, pretending that his phone wasn't vibrating every three minutes with frantic texts from his former colleagues, informing him that the board of Blackwood Hale had officially voted to terminate him for "gross misconduct" and breach of contract.
When the bill finally arrived, resting on a silver platter, Preston didn't even look at the total. He casually tossed his black titanium American Express card onto the leather folio.
Five minutes later, the waiter returned. His expression was a masterclass in polite condescension.
"I apologize, Mr. Hayes. But the card has been declined."
Tiffany stopped mid-laugh. "Declined? Preston, what is he talking about?"
Preston felt the blood rush to his ears. "There must be a mistake. A fraud alert. Run it again."
"I have run it three times, sir. The bank has placed a hard hold on the account. Do you have an alternative form of payment?"
Preston dug into his wallet, his hands trembling. He handed over a Platinum Visa. The waiter returned two minutes later, shaking his head. He handed over a corporate card. Declined. Every piece of plastic in his wallet had been transformed into useless rectangles.
The murmurs from the surrounding tables began to rise. New York elite could smell blood in the water.
"Preston, this is embarrassing," Tiffany hissed, her lacquered smile cracking. "Fix this."
"I... I can't," Preston choked out, the reality of his total annihilation finally crushing the last of his denial. He looked at the bill. Three thousand dollars. He had eighty bucks in his pocket.
The maître d' approached, accompanied by a burly security guard. "Mr. Hayes, if you cannot settle the bill, I am afraid we will have to call the authorities."
Tiffany stood up, her face flushed with fury and humiliation. She grabbed her designer clutch. "I am not going to jail over dinner. You told me you were a partner, Preston! You told me you had millions!"
"I did! I do!" Preston pleaded, reaching for her hand. "Just pay the bill, Tiff. I'll wire you the money tomorrow. I swear."
Tiffany looked at him as if he were a cockroach that had crawled onto her plate. "I make sixty thousand a year, Preston. I don't pay for dinner. And I certainly don't date broke, disgraced losers."
May you like
Without another word, she turned on her heel and marched out of the restaurant, leaving Preston alone at the table, surrounded by empty champagne flutes and the cold, unblinking stares of the Manhattan elite.
Preston Hayes, the man who had thought he owned the world a mere four hours ago, was escorted out the back door of Le Bernardin by security, his tailored suit soaked in the freezing rain, with absolutely nowhere to go.
