Chapter 3 - The Declined TransactionAcross town, the morning sun did little to warm the opulent dining room of the Mercer-Harrington estate.
Graham sat at the mahogany table, dressed in a bespoke Italian wool suit, scrolling through his phone while waiting for his private chauffeur to bring the Bentley around. Vivian sat opposite him, sipping her imported chamomile tea, a smug smile gracing her face as she reviewed the society pages of the Chicago Tribune.
“I still can’t believe you didn't make her sign a formal relinquishment of parental rights before kicking her out,” Vivian remarked, lifting her teacup with an elegant crook of her pinky. “Though, let’s be honest, a woman like Evelyn won't have the resources to hire a lawyer. She’ll probably crawl back to her sewing shop in some dingy basement by noon.”
Graham smirked, not looking up from his screen. “Mother, relax. Evelyn was entirely dependent on me. She didn't even have a credit card in her own name—I made sure of that years ago. By tonight, she’ll be begging for grocery money, and that’s when we’ll force her to sign the divorce papers for a lump sum of five thousand dollars. Clean break.”
Just then, the heavy dining room doors swung open.
Their private butler, Thomas, walked in, looking distinctly uncomfortable, holding a small silver tray bearing Graham’s corporate American Express card.
“Sir,” Thomas said hesitantly, stopping a few feet from the table.
Graham frowned, looking up. “What is it, Thomas? Is the car ready?”
“The car is outside, Mr. Harrington, but... there was an issue when I attempted to settle your monthly club account this morning. And your fuel card was rejected at the gate.”
Graham scoffed, tossing his phone onto the table. “Rejected? That’s ridiculous. It’s an elite corporate card with an unlimited spending ceiling. Call the bank.”
“I did, sir,” Thomas swallowed hard. “The representative on the phone stated that all accounts associated with your social security number and corporate tax ID have been frozen under an emergency Level One security directive issued by Vale International Holdings.”
The room went dead silent.
Vivian lowered her teacup so fast it clattered against the saucer, spilling amber liquid across the white linen tablecloth. “Vale International? What does a multinational conglomerate have to do with your corporate card, Graham?”
Graham stood up so fast his chair screeched against the hardwood floor. “There must be some mistake. Vale International owns the parent company of Harrington Luxe, but they never intervene in regional operations. I report directly to the board.”
Before Graham could reach for his phone to call his office, the heavy double doors pushed open again.
Two men in dark suits—corporate auditors from Vale International—walked uninvited into the dining room, flanked by two armed private security guards.
“Mr. Graham Harrington?” the lead auditor asked, his voice cold and devoid of emotion.
“Who the hell are you?” Graham demanded, stepping forward. “How did you get past the gates? Security!”
“Your security gates were deactivated remotely ten minutes ago,” the auditor replied smoothly, pulling a thick manila folder from his briefcase. “I am Arthur Vance, senior forensic auditor for Vale International. We are here to execute an immediate seizure of all assets tied to Harrington Luxe regional accounts due to severe corporate malfeasance, fraudulent expense reporting, and breach of fiduciary trust.”
Vivian stood up, her face turning a violent shade of crimson. “How dare you speak to my son that way! Do you know who we are? We are the Harringtons! We practically built this city’s social scene!”
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Arthur Vance didn't even blink. He opened the folder and slid a single sheet of paper across the table toward Graham.
“You are currently bankrupt, Mrs. Harrington,” Arthur said flatly. “Furthermore, Mr. Harrington, your employment with Harrington Luxe has been terminated effective immediately. Please surrender your office keys, your company vehicle keys, and your corporate phone before we have you physically removed from the premises.”
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