Chapter 4 - The Syndicate Collapses
I pushed the heavy doors open and stepped into the adjoining lounge.
The room was lit by low amber lamps,
smelling of aged scotch and leather upholstery.
All eight investors were standing near the marble fireplace,
holding untouched glasses,
talking in hushed,
urgent tones that abruptly ceased the moment I entered.
Cornelius Hail turned toward me,
his silver eyebrows raised in quiet inquiry.
Behind me,
Jerome rushed into the lounge,
his face red,
sweat glistening along his receding hairline.
Bridget lingered in the doorway behind him,
looking like a ghost in silk,
her eyes wild and swollen from crying.
“Cornelius,
wait!”
Jerome shouted,
raising his hands in a frantic gesture of surrender.
“Don't do this.
We have known each other for twenty years.
My team has built Northgate into an industry leader.
The Bellmore acquisition will double our market capitalization within twelve months.
Whatever personal disagreements Leona and I have,
they belong in family court,
not in an institutional transaction.”
Cornelius set his glass down on the mantelpiece with a sharp clink.
“Jerome,”
Cornelius said,
his voice chilling the warm room,
“when you walked into my office five years ago asking for Drayton backing,
I gave you one condition.
I told you that the moment your personal vanity threatened the capital of the family that built you,
I would cut your lines without hesitation.”
Evelyn Cross stepped forward,
her expression stern and uncompromising.
“Vanguard Ridge cannot participate in this bridge syndicate,
Jerome,”
she stated bluntly.
“We have fiduciary obligations to our pension fund investors.
We cannot co-invest alongside an entity whose majority shareholder has uncovered unauthorized transfers to offshore accounts.
Consider our eighty million dollar commitment withdrawn,
effective immediately.”
“Evelyn,
no!”
Jerome pleaded,
his voice cracking,
stepping toward her.
“You can't withdraw!
We have a binding memorandum of understanding!”
“The memorandum was conditioned on clean title,
unencumbered collateral,
and the lead participation of Drayton Capital,”
Arthur Pendelton said,
pulling his coat tighter around his chest.
“Without Leona’s eighty-five million,
and with Vanguard out,
Apex Capital is also rescinding its thirty million dollar commitment.
You don't have a syndicate,
Jerome.
You have a dead company.”
Bridget let out a stifled sob from the doorway,
pressing her face into her hands.
Jerome spun around,
looking at the other four junior partners in the room,
men who had spent the last two years laughing at his jokes and flying on his chartered jets.
Not a single one looked him in the eye.
Each of them stepped backward,
muttering apologies,
reaching for their coats,
and heading toward the exit.
“Leona,”
Jerome whispered,
turning toward me,
his voice reduced to a desperate,
reedy whine.
“Please.
Think of our name.
Think of what this will do to the family legacy.
You can't let Northgate go under.
Everything we worked for will be liquidated by Monday morning.”
I looked at the man I had loved for two decades,
the man whose debts I had cleared when we were twenty-five,
the man whose company I had capitalized with my inheritance,
and I felt nothing at all.
Not hatred.
Not grief.
Just the profound,
unshakable peace that comes when an illusion finally shatters into dust.
“I did not work for Northgate,
Jerome,”
I said,
my voice ringing out like a funeral bell.
May you like
“You worked for me.
And your employment has just been terminated.”
