Chapter 7 - Midnight Visitors
My muscles locked instantly. In the quiet stillness of the snow-draped street, that aggressive rapping sounded less like a holiday greeting and more like a summons.
Cassandra’s face went entirely bloodless. She looked from the front door back to me, her voice trembling. “Are they already here?”
“Stay here,” I muttered, my jaw tightening as a cold spike of adrenaline replaced the calm exhaustion of the drive.
I crossed the small living room and yanked the front door open, half-expecting to see Richard Vance or a process server brandishing an emergency injunction from the board of directors. Instead, standing on the porch under the flickering yellow glow of the carriage light was a tall, silver-haired man in a heavy wool overcoat, his breath pluming in the freezing air, accompanied by a younger woman holding a heavy leather briefcase.
It was Arthur Prescott—my father. And beside him stood my corporate defense attorney, Elena Vance.
“Dad?” I breathed, my hand gripping the edge of the doorframe so hard my knuckles turned white. “What in God’s name are you doing in Denver?”
My father pushed past me into the entryway without waiting for an invitation, his sharp, weathered eyes immediately scanning the modest living room, the small artificial Christmas tree, and Cassandra standing frozen by the kitchen archway.
“You managed to wipe out three quarters of a billion dollars in market cap in the span of a three-hour flight, Damon,” my father said, his voice deadly calm, though the veins in his temples pulsed with suppressed fury. “Naturally, the board called me. As the founder and primary stakeholder, I felt it was my responsibility to see firsthand whether my son had completely lost his mind, or if there was something else driving this monumental act of corporate sabotage.”
Elena stepped in behind him, closing the door against the swirling snow. She offered Cassandra a cool, professional nod before turning her sharp gaze toward me.
“Damon, the emergency injunction hasn't been filed yet,” Elena said, opening her briefcase and pulling out a single document. “I managed to stall Richard Vance by telling him you were suffering from acute medical exhaustion onboard the aircraft. But if you don't sign the proxy authorization before markets open in Tokyo and London, Merritt Systems will go public with a hostile takeover by 6:00 AM.”
Cassandra stepped out from the kitchen, her chin held high, the vulnerability of a moment ago completely replaced by a fierce, protective maternal instinct.
“He’s not signing anything tonight, Mr. Prescott,” Cassandra said, her voice ringing clear and steady through the room. “You can take your briefcase, your proxy authorization, and your corporate panic back to San Francisco where they belong.”
My father slowly turned his gaze toward Cassandra, his expression softening just a fraction as recognition flickered in his eyes. “Miss Hayes. I see age hasn’t dulled your talent for dramatic entrances.”
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“It’s not a dramatic entrance, Arthur,” Cassandra shot back, using his first name with a deliberate lack of deference. “It’s reality. Your son spent the last three years building a monument to your approval while your family name became a corporate brand. He just woke up. Don’t you dare try to put him back to sleep.”
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