Chapter 3 - The View from the Ritz
The rain had turned into a steady, gray drizzle by six o'clock the following morning, blurring the outlines of the Boston Common beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Ritz-Carlton penthouse suite. Emily Rowan sat in a cream silk armchair, a porcelain cup of black coffee resting on the glass table beside her.
She was dressed in a pristine, tailored charcoal suit of Italian wool, the shoulders sharp, the lines clean and uncompromising. Her dark hair was pinned back into a neat, professional knot at the nape of her neck. There was no makeup on her face except for a touch of dark tint on her lips, making her green eyes look larger, colder, and entirely focused.
Arthur Pendelton stood three paces behind her, a fresh stack of financial documents held under his arm.
"The Whitmore brokers spent the night attempting to contact five different investment houses in Manhattan, Miss Rowan," Arthur reported, a faint, dry trace of amusement in his voice. "They offered the Maine property, the corporate warehouse network in New Jersey, and twenty percent of the Whitmore House Group common stock as collateral for an emergency bridge loan."
Emily sipped her coffee. "And the response?"
"The market has been informed that Rowan Trust holds a first-tier prior lien on all Whitmore corporate assets under the 2014 master agreement. Anyone who provides them with liquidity now would be stepping into a secondary position behind a ninety-million-dollar default. In short, no one is answering their calls."
"What about Lauren Hayes?" Emily asked, her voice calm, devoid of any personal malice, as if she were inquiring about a shipping delay in a textile mill.
"Miss Hayes spent the early hours of the morning at her father’s office in South Boston. Her father’s firm, Hayes Contracting, has seventy percent of its current capital tied up in the marble and custom fixtures currently sitting at the Boston port. Since the Whitmore wire bounced, the port authority has issued a formal lien against Hayes Logistics for non-payment of import duties. If the funds are not cleared by noon, her father's company will face an involuntary bankruptcy petition."
Emily set her cup down on the glass table with a small, clear click.
"Twelve years ago, Arthur," she said, looking out at the gray park below, "my father told me that the most dangerous thing you can do in business is allow your opponent to believe you are part of the scenery. He said that if you sit in the corner long enough, people will start assuming you don't have teeth."
"Your father was a very distinct man, Miss Rowan," Arthur noted.
"The Whitmores spent twelve years treating me like an administrative error, Arthur," Emily continued, standing up and smoothing the front of her charcoal jacket. "Daniel thought I was an assistant because I knew how to fix his ledger. Victoria thought I was a servant because I knew the names of the girls who cleared the plates. They never looked at me long enough to realize that the hand keeping them afloat was the same hand they were using to steady themselves while they kicked me."
She turned around, her green eyes fixing on the lawyer with an intensity that made him straight his shoulders. "Is the board meeting at Whitmore House Group fully attended?"
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"Every voting member is currently in the executive conference room on the sixteenth floor of the Federal Street tower, Miss Rowan," Arthur said, checking his watch. "They have been there since seven o'clock. Daniel Whitmore is currently on his fourth pot of coffee, and his mother has threatened to fire the executive receptionist three times."
"Then let's not keep them waiting," Emily said, picking up a slim leather portfolio from the desk. "It's 9:45. By the time we arrive, the market will have adjusted to the reality of their situation."
