“We own the debt,” I said over the noise. “We are foreclosing on this building, on the commercial portfolio, and on the residence secured against the debt. Your operating accounts are frozen. Your transfer privileges are suspended. And because asset dissipation is now a credible risk, injunctions have already been filed.”
Prescott’s chair scraped back. “No,” he said. “No, you can’t. Violet!”
I turned to look at him fully for the first time since entering the room. He saw then that I meant it. Not as revenge, though it was that too. As fact.
Everything in him collapsed at once. He stumbled around the table, dropped to his knees on the marble, and reached for me.
“Please,” he said, sobbing now, the kind of ugly crying men like Prescott reserve for themselves because they consider their own pain sacred. “Please, Violet. I was wrong. I was under pressure. I didn’t mean it. I love you. I swear to God, I love you. Don’t do this. Don’t leave me with nothing.”
The board watched. My father watched. Randolph watched.