Chapter 6 - The Ashford Gala in Richmond
On Thursday morning, the grand exhibition hall of the Greater Richmond Convention Center was packed with over five hundred federal officials, foreign energy ministers, and Wall Street analysts.
Towering banners bearing the Ashford Global Capital logo fluttered from the sixty-foot rafters: POWERING THE NEXT CENTURY.
Gregory Ashford stood on the central stage in a tailored three-piece navy suit, wearing a wireless lapel microphone, radiating the radiant, untouchable arrogance of a young titan about to claim his crown.
Beside him sat a thirty-foot industrial mock-up of the Ashford Solid-State Grid Regulator, connected to four massive high-voltage generator banks.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Gregory’s voice boomed through the auditorium sound system.
"Today, we don't just demonstrate a piece of hardware; we demonstrate American supremacy in decentralized power management. With the pending historic merger between Ashford Capital and Hayes Holdings, our infrastructure will illuminate eighty percent of the mid-Atlantic."
In the front row of the executive gallery, my board of directors sat smiling, clapping politely alongside the state's senior senator.
My empty seat at the center of the delegation had been drawing nervous whispers for twenty minutes.
Gregory smiled down at my directors, tapping his wrist watch with a theatrical wink.
"Our dear partner Scarlet Hayes is running slightly behind schedule, but as the future chairman of the joint enterprise, I have full authority to initiate the phase-three maximum load test."
He turned to his chief technical officer, raising his hand toward the master control console.
"Initiate full seventy-megawatt sequence!" Gregory commanded into the microphone.
The heavy generators behind the curtain began to hum, a low, vibrating drone that rattled the water glasses on the press tables.
The massive LED monitors on the wall began displaying the electrical intake:
30 MW... 45 MW... 60 MW...
Suddenly, the heavy rear doors of the auditorium swung wide open with a resounding, echoing bang.
Every single head in the five-hundred-person audience whipped around.
Walking down the center carpeted aisle was not a lone socialite looking for an apology.
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I marched toward the stage wearing a sharp, tailored ivory power suit, my heels striking the concrete floor with the rhythmic authority of a military drum.
And walking beside me, wearing a crisp dark gray suit with his broad shoulders squared and an aluminum hard drive in his hand, was Noah Bennett.
