Chapter 8 - The Gala Confrontation
The Grand Ballroom of the Mercer Plaza Hotel was breathtaking.
Unlike Vanessa’s tacky, gold-plated wedding, this room breathed old money. Senators, tech billionaires, and media moguls mingled over champagne.
I stood by the grand staircase, wearing a bespoke suit that cost more than my old car. Marcus stood a few feet away, discreetly checking his earpiece.
“The targets have arrived,” Marcus murmured.
I looked toward the entrance. Richard, Lorraine, and Vanessa walked in.
They looked out of place. They were trying too hard. Richard’s tuxedo was overly flashy, and Lorraine wore too much jewelry. Vanessa looked around nervously, her eyes searching the room.
When Richard spotted my father, his face lit up with a predatory smile. He strutted over, his family trailing behind him like loyal dogs.
“Thomas!” Richard boomed, acting as if they were old friends. “What a magnificent party.”
My father, holding a glass of sparkling water, didn't smile. “Richard.”
Vanessa saw me. She immediately put on a mournful, puppy-dog expression and took a step forward. “Daniel, you look... amazing.”
I didn't answer her. I looked directly at Richard.
“You brought the documents?” I asked him.
Richard chuckled, tapping his breast pocket. “All safe and sound, boys. Ready to make a deal. Shall we head to a private room?”
“No,” my father said. “We do it here.”
Lorraine scoffed, fanning herself. “Thomas, please. We don't want to make a scene in front of polite society. Just wire the ten million, and we will forgive your little masquerade.”
“You are in no position to forgive anyone, Lorraine,” I said, stepping between them.
Richard’s smile tightened. “Careful, Daniel. I have the press on speed dial. One call, and I ruin this company.”
“Call them,” I challenged, crossing my arms.
Richard blinked. “What?”
“Call the press, Richard,” I said louder. A few nearby guests stopped talking and looked over. “Tell them you’re blackmailing Thomas Mercer.”
“Keep your voice down,” Richard hissed, his face flushing.
“Why?” my father asked, his voice echoing perfectly in the sudden quiet of the room. “Are you ashamed of your business practices, Richard?”
Vanessa grabbed her father’s arm. “Dad, what is happening? I thought they were paying us.”
“They are,” Richard growled, pulling out his phone. “You want to play hardball, Mercer? Fine.”
He dialed a number and put it on speakerphone. “Get me the city desk.”
The line rang once, then clicked. A voice came through the speaker.
“This is the city desk. Are you ready to confess, Mr. Hale?”
Richard froze. The voice on the phone wasn't a journalist. It was Sterling, our chief financial officer.
“What is this?” Richard demanded, hanging up.
“That was the sound of your trap failing,” I said. I snapped my fingers.
Marcus stepped forward and handed me an iPad. I held it up for Richard to see.
It was a live feed of the banking portal.
“Ten minutes ago,” I said calmly, “I executed the clause on your secondary loans. Your personal estate was put up as collateral for your business debt, wasn't it?”
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Richard couldn't breathe. He stared at the screen.
“As of this exact moment,” I said, pressing a button on the screen, “Hale Enterprises is in default. The bank is seizing your house, your cars, and your corporate accounts.”
