“You humiliated me for five years,” I said. “You called me charity. You mocked my father. You ate food purchased by the company I was quietly keeping alive and then invited rooms full of people to laugh at me. And when your son hit me, you stood there.”
“We all say things in anger,” he whispered.
“No,” I said. “Some of us say things in anger. Some of us reveal ourselves.”
I took the thick red-backed document from the stack at my side and dropped it onto the glass table.
“Read the title.”
His gaze fell. Notice of Default and Immediate Foreclosure.
My father spoke then, but softly now, which was far worse than shouting. “My firm has already purchased your full debt portfolio. We hold every material note. You are in breach. The acceleration clauses are active.”
I finished it. “There is no bailout. There was never going to be a bailout. We did not come to save you. We came to collect.”
The board erupted. Questions, accusations, legal threats, panicked protests. Randolph staggered back. Prescott looked like a man who had opened a parachute and found stone.