Chapter 3 - The Cold Tarmac in Maine
The wheels of the Gulfstream screeched against the frozen concrete of the private runway in Bangor, Maine, braking aggressively before taxiing toward an isolated hangar on the northern perimeter of the airfield. Outside, a light blizzard was swirling through the dusk, coating the ground in a layer of jagged ice.
The moment the aircraft came to a halt, the cabin pressure hissed open. The main air-stair descended into the biting sub-zero wind.
Aaron, his mother, and Jasmine rushed toward the exit, expecting to confront the local airport authorities and demand immediate refueling for a flight to New York. But as they stepped onto the metal platform, they froze.
Parked in a tight, impenetrable perimeter around the jet were four black armored Suburbans, their amber security lights pulsing against the snow. Standing beside the vehicles were eight private security officers in tactical winter coats, flanked by three men in bespoke dark wool overcoats carrying heavy leather briefcases.
And standing in the center, sheltered beneath an umbrella held by her private security detail, was me.
I wore a tailored midnight-blue coat with a sable collar, my dark hair pinned up with effortless precision, sipping a hot espresso from a silver travel mug. Beside me stood Daniel, holding a stack of certified legal binders, and my uncle, Marcus Vance, whose towering six-foot-four frame commanded the respect of every boardroom on Wall Street.
“Alyssa!” Aaron roared, his voice cracking against the whistling wind as he stumbled down the icy stairs. “What kind of sick, childish game is this?! You had our pilot hijack my plane! Do you have any idea what you've done?! The Sterling consortium was waiting for us! You just cost this company an eight-hundred-million-dollar international restructuring!”
Evelyn scurried down behind him, shivering violently in her thin designer trench coat, her face twisted in rage. “You ungrateful, spiteful little brat! How dare you humiliate my son like this?! You always were insecure, but to endanger our lives with an emergency landing because of a petty seating dispute? I will make sure Aaron divorces you and leaves you with nothing!”
I didn't answer immediately. I took a slow, deliberate sip of my espresso, handing the cup back to my assistant before taking three measured steps forward onto the snow.
“You’re shivering, Evelyn,” I said softly, my voice cutting through the wind with absolute clarity. “Perhaps you should have worn a heavier coat. But then again, you were so eager to fly to London on my jet to steal my family's intellectual property that you forgot to check the weather forecast.”
Jasmine stepped off the bottom rung, her teeth chattering, her expensive makeup running from the freezing drizzle. “Mrs. Prescott, this is an illegal restraint of corporate officers! I am filing a formal complaint with the Department of Justice! Victor Sterling will have your family dragged into federal court by sunrise!”
Uncle Marcus let out a dry, booming laugh that echoed across the empty tarmac. He stepped forward, his eyes locking onto Jasmine with lethal precision.
“Tell your father Victor that if he wants to play games in my sandbox, he should send someone with more experience than his illegitimate daughter,” Marcus said, pulling a red folder from his coat and tossing it onto the hood of the nearest SUV. “Miss Vance—or should I say, Miss Sterling—your encrypted communications with your father's private server were intercepted three hours ago by our cyber-forensics division. Every blueprint, every proprietary algorithm, and every draft of the illegal licensing transfer you persuaded this fool to sign has been logged.”
Aaron’s head whipped toward Jasmine, his eyes wide with absolute horror. “What? Victor Sterling? Jasmine… what is he talking about? You told me you grew up in Ohio! You told me your father was a retired high school teacher!”
Jasmine backed away toward the airplane stairs, her jaw slack, unable to utter a single word of defense. The paper empire of deceit she had constructed was crumbling into the snow before her very eyes.
“You were a pawn, Aaron,” I said, looking at my husband with cold, unyielding pity. “You were so desperate to believe that your genius was the reason Prescott Technologies succeeded that you let the first pretty face who flattered your ego walk you right into a corporate execution.”
Daniel stepped forward, opening his leather portfolio and presenting Aaron with three thick documents stamped with red legal seals.
“Mr. Aaron Prescott,” Daniel announced with clinical precision. “Under Article Four of the Founder’s Operating Agreement, the Vance Family Trust has exercised its unilateral call option. Effective at four p.m. this afternoon, all thirteen proprietary neural-network patents that power Prescott Technologies have been officially reassigned to Vance Aerospace.”
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“No…” Aaron whispered, his knees trembling. “Those patents are the entire valuation of the firm! Without them, Prescott Technologies is just an empty software shell!”
“Precisely,” I replied, stepping directly into his personal space, looking straight into his frantic, bloodshot eyes. “And as of ten minutes ago, the board of directors convened in an emergency digital session. By a vote of seven to two, you have been officially terminated as Chief Executive Officer for gross negligence and breach of fiduciary duty. You are no longer an officer of Prescott Technologies. In fact, Aaron… you don't even have a security badge to enter the building.”
