Chapter 2 - The House of Cards
The private dining room door opened behind us, and Sasha stepped out onto the balcony, her expression a mask of manufactured concern. The contrast between her pristine facade and the sheer panic vibrating off Barrett was almost poetic.
“Barrett? Is everything alright? The executives are asking about the toast—” She stopped short, her sharp eyes darting between Barrett’s ashen face and my composed posture. She could smell the disaster in the air before she even heard the details. A predator scenting blood.
“Get inside, Sasha,” Barrett rasped, his voice trembling as he tried to drag air into his lungs.
“No, let her stay,” I said, turning to face them both. “Sasha loves being part of the executive team, don't you, Sasha? She loves handling the strategy, managing the schedule, booking the hotel rooms in Houston, and making sure every detail of your little corporate life runs smoothly.”
Sasha’s eyes narrowed, her professional warmth evaporating instantly. “Olivia, if you’re throwing a tantrum because your husband didn't seat you at his right hand, take it home. Don't sabotage a multi-national acquisition because your ego got bruised.”
I let out a low, genuine laugh. It was a rich, melodic sound that seemed to unnerve them both far more than screaming would have.
“Ego?” I stepped past Barrett, walking toward the glass door. “Sasha, darling, do you honestly think I care about a seat at a table surrounded by men who wouldn't know a viable balance sheet if it hit them over the head? Let me enlighten you, since Barrett is clearly too paralyzed by impending bankruptcy to explain it to his favorite strategist.”
I turned back at the threshold, resting my hand lightly on the glass frame.
“As of eight minutes ago, Sloan Hospitality Group is insolvent,” I announced, letting every word land with devastating clarity. “Without Cade Capital’s five hundred million, your cash reserves cover approximately three weeks of operational overhead. Your debt-to-equity ratio just crossed four-to-one, which triggers immediate margin calls from your secondary lenders by tomorrow afternoon. In plain English? By the end of the week, the bank is going to repossess your headquarters, your coastal hotels will be auctioned off to liquidate your debts, and every single executive sitting in that dining room is going to find themselves unemployed.”
Sasha’s face went completely rigid. The manicured composure cracked. “You’re lying. Barrett secured the backing months ago—”
“Conditional backing,” I corrected sweetly. “And a wife who was willing to look the other way while her husband played corporate CEO and private romantic simultaneously. But here is a golden rule of high finance, Sasha: Never bite the hand that feeds your empire, especially when that hand owns the keys to the vault.”
I looked at Barrett one last time. He looked smaller now, stripped of his arrogance, standing under the dim balcony lights like a man who had just realized he built his entire kingdom out of dry autumn leaves.
“Good luck with the toast, Barrett,” I said, smoothing the front of my dress. “I suggest telling your investors the truth before the morning papers do.”
I walked back through the private dining room, ignoring the curious, expectant glances of the twelve senior executives. I grabbed my designer coat from the chair, picked up my handbag, and walked straight toward the private elevators.
My phone buzzed in my palm the moment I pressed the down button.
May you like
It was a text message from Thomas Vance, senior partner at Cade Capital’s legal division: “All accounts frozen, Olivia. Asset recall notices transmitted to all secondary institutional partners. The restructuring team is standing by for your instructions on picking up the distressed assets at pennies on the dollar.”
I smiled, stepped into the arriving elevator, and pressed the button for the lobby. The descent was smooth, silent, and swift. Ten years of building a ghost, and it had taken barely ten seconds to tear it down.
