Chapter 6 - The Penthouse by the Sea
While Nathan and Brooke were stranded in the humid arrival terminal with fifty dollars in cash and declining credit cards, I landed at Miami International on a private charter jet.
I wore an elegant white linen pantsuit, dark oversized sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed straw hat.
Arthur Vance and two armed private security guards met me at the private executive terminal, escorting me to a chauffeur-driven black Escalade.
"Where are they?" I asked, looking out at the swaying palm trees lining the airport expressway.
"They're sitting on a bench outside terminal two, trying to borrow money from Brooke's sister in Orlando," Arthur chuckled, tapping his tablet. "Her sister hung up on them. Nathan tried to check into a three-star motel on Biscayne Boulevard, but his personal debit card was declined for a sixty-dollar overdraft."
"Take me to the Continuum," I said calmly.
Thirty minutes later, our SUV pulled through the gated security checkpoint of the Continuum in South Beach.
The property was breathtaking. Two forty-story towers of blue glass and white concrete stood proudly against the turquoise backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean.
The leasing director met me in the grand marble lobby, offering a respectful bow and handing me two heavy brass master keys attached to a leather fob.
"Mrs. Prescott," the director said warmly. "Welcome to South Beach. The previous lease agreement has been formally rescinded, and the penthouse has been deeded directly to your family's asset trust as restitution for the unauthorized wire transfers."
"Thank you, Marcus," I smiled, stepping into the private elevator.
The elevator climbed smoothly to the thirty-eighth floor, opening directly into the grand foyer of the penthouse.
The ocean view through the floor-to-ceiling glass was panoramic and mesmerizing. The living room was bathed in golden afternoon sunlight, featuring travertine floors, modern white furnishings, and an expansive terrace with a private plunge pool.
On the dining table sat the champagne bucket and fresh oysters Nathan had ordered from New York that morning.
I walked out onto the terrace, feeling the warm ocean breeze ruffle my hair.
I pulled out my phone.
It was vibrating incessantly with seventy-four missed calls, twenty-eight voicemails, and dozens of frantic text messages from Nathan Prescott.
I didn't answer.
Instead, I took a photograph of the crystal-clear ocean from the terrace railing, holding up a glass of Dom Pérignon catching the afternoon sun.
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I sent the photo directly to Nathan’s personal number with a simple, three-word caption:
Enjoying your view.
