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I set the folder aside and grabbed the Scotch I’d poured just minutes before Declan stopped by. I took a long sip of the amber liquid and considered my next steps. I savored the notes of oak and vanilla for a moment before taking the tumbler with me over to one of my floor-to-ceiling windows. I watched the traffic below slowly make their way to whatever destination they chose, not envying being stuck in any vehicle one bit.

From up here the city looked the way it always looked to me: stuck in an endless cycle, stalled because of the inability to see more than one move ahead. Or it just had everything to do with when one was able to leave. Behind me, my penthouse was completely silent, void of any other human or animal. The only sound was the occasional ping from my phone, which sat on the desk behind me. I preferred it this way. The quiet allowed me to think without distraction, to think through my next moves without my brain being interrupted.

The aesthetic of the penthouse had been chosen to directly contrast the brightness of Ashcroft Group’s headquarters. Dark walls, wood, and marble surfaces surrounded me, but this was also where I allowed my space to showcase some personality. The interior designer and her team who worked on the design and execution of this project had made sure to include personal photos from my childhood, including a photo of my parents at their summer house in the Hamptons, and a shot of me standing next to my father’s Bentley when I was seven.

A soft ping came from my phone once again. I turned from the window and walked back to my desk, picking it up to see a message from Sylvia.

Need to discuss Prescott Vantage with you. There seems to be some hesitation that has come up within the last day or so that needs to be addressed.

“Interesting timing,” I murmured, setting my glass down.

I scrolled through my calendar to this evening and tomorrow’s schedule. Meetings stacked back to back until 3 p.m., but nothing going on for the rest of today. Perfect and given what I was about to do today, there was a chance that tomorrow’s agenda would change as well.

I typed back:

Have Nancy arrange dinner with Howard Prescott for tonight.

I drained the rest of my Scotch and grabbed the folder with the images of Gary Nast before walking back into my room to prepare for this last-minute trip. I slid the folder into my briefcase and slammed it closed. The Prescott Vantage situation now demanded immediate attention and while I’d been known to allow members of my team to take my place at times, this was too important to be handled by anyone but me. No one was going to disrupt my carefully orchestrated plan.

Howard Prescott was a creature of habit and predictability. His hesitation now meant someone had gotten to him. And he was about to get a lesson in what happened when someone tried to rewrite my script.

I called my pilot as I packed a small overnight bag, instructing him to have the jet ready within the hour. The beauty of private aviation wasn’t just the comfort, it was the ability to decide at 4 p.m. that you needed to be in another city by dinner. People with commercial tickets lived in a different reality, one where their schedules were dictated by others. I’d outgrown that particular constraint long ago.

Within thirty minutes, my driver was navigating Manhattan traffic toward Teterboro. I scrolled through Howard Prescott’s file on my tablet. Sixty-eight years old. Widower. Two heart attacks in the last five years. He had one daughter, Sutton. I wondered how involved she was in the opposition to this acquisition. Howard had built Prescott Vantage from nothing, but he was a man of his generation: risk-averse, tradition-bound, and increasingly aware of his mortality.

Men like Howard craved legacy above all else. The question was who had gotten to him, planting doubts about selling to me. I had a short list of possibilities, each requiring a different approach.

My phone rang and I knew it was Nancy before I even read her name.

“Yes?” I answered, not bothering with pleasantries because I already knew who it was.

“I’ve arranged dinner with Howard at 1789 Restaurant,” she said. “It’s set for eight o’clock and it’s in a private room. He believes this is a casual check-in. I’ve also booked you the presidential suite at The Jefferson.”

“Perfect.” I glanced at my watch. Everything was coming together quickly, just how I liked it.

Even with the traffic, we got to Teterboro in record time and within minutes, we were up in the air, headed toward Dulles. As we landed, I checked the time and I had just under two hours before my dinner meeting with Howard. Plenty of time to check into the hotel, review my approach, and arrive early enough to make him squirm once his eyes landed on me.

My checking into the hotel was uneventful and after a quick shower and change into a new suit, I was on my way to 1789 Restaurant. My driver pulled up to the restaurant at precisely 7:45. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and buttoned my jacket, taking a moment to survey the establishment. My assistant had chosen well. The restaurant was upscale without being ostentatious, old-school enough to suggest permanence but not so dated as to seem irrelevant. Much like Howard himself.

I entered the restaurant with the confidence of someone who’d never been denied entry anywhere. Before I could introduce myself, the hostess recognized me immediately. “Mr. Ashcroft, welcome. Your private room is ready, and Mr. Prescott has not yet arrived.”

Excellent. I couldn’t have asked for anything else because I got exactly what I wanted. I nodded and followed her through the main dining area. I was also pleased with how the layout offered privacy without isolation. A strategic location that allowed me to see Howard’s entrance while remaining partially obscured until the moment I chose to be seen.

“Will you be having wine this evening?” the hostess asked.

“A bottle of the Château Lafite Rothschild 2022,” I replied. “Have it opened and breathing when Mr. Prescott arrives.”

She nodded and left me alone in the room. I took a seat facing the door and placed my briefcase beside me on the floor. The folder with Gary Nast’s photos was tucked inside, ready to be used if necessary. I preferred not to use such direct leverage, but I never entered a negotiation without multiple paths to victory.

At exactly 8:03, I saw Howard Prescott enter the restaurant. Even from a distance, I could read the tension in his shoulders and that was to be expected. The hostess greeted him and gestured toward the private room.

“Cain,” he said, extending his hand as he entered. “I wasn’t expecting you personally. I thought this was a general update meeting with your team.”

I stood and shook his hand. “Some matters require personal attention, Howard. Please, sit.”

He settled across from me just as a server arrived with the wine. I watched Howard’s eyes widen slightly at the label. It was an expensive bottle of wine that was meant to make a statement. The message was clear: this wasn’t just dinner.

“To continued partnership,” I said after our glasses were filled, raising mine slightly.