Chapter 3: What Midnight Costs
Marcus was waiting by the car.
He had been with me for six years.
He had seen deals fall apart before.
He had seen people underestimate me before.
He took one look at my face when I came through the door and said nothing, which was exactly right.
He opened the rear door.
I got in.
He got in the other side.
"Done?" he said.
"Done," I said.
He nodded once.
That was the whole conversation.
My phone rang before we reached the end of the block.
I looked at the screen.
James Whitfield — our lead counsel in New York.
I answered.
"I heard from London," James said.
"They confirmed the cancellation.
The escrow instruction has been formally withdrawn.
Hargrove's bank has been notified."
"Good."
"Diana." A pause.
"Their legal team has already called us twice.
In the last eleven minutes."
"I know."
"They're saying there was a miscommunication.
They're asking if there's any flexibility on the midnight window."
"There isn't."
"They're going to push harder.
Richard Hargrove called me personally.
He said—"
"James." I watched the St.
Regis disappear in the side mirror.
"What did I tell you when we opened this file eight months ago?"
A short silence.
"You said if the deal ever stops being a choice and starts being a rescue, we walk."
"We walked," I said.
"Hold the line."
"Understood," he said.
"I'll manage their calls."
I ended the call.
Marcus was looking straight ahead.
The city moved past the windows, indifferent and bright.
"How bad is it for them?" Marcus said.
"Without the capital injection, the merger fails by morning.
The subsidiaries go to separate auction within sixty days.
The family debt becomes public record when the first creditor files."
"And the family?"
"They'll survive," I said.
"They have assets.
They'll lose control of the company their grandfather built, but they'll survive.
That was always true.
They just didn't want to believe it."
Marcus was quiet for a moment.
"She really just took the documents out of your hand," he said.
"She did."
"And Richard—"
"Pointed at the ballroom and told me to go serve." I looked out the window.
"He'd shaken my hand three times.
Sat across from me for a combined fourteen hours of negotiation.
Looked at me and saw someone who was there to carry glasses."
Marcus said nothing.
There was nothing useful to say.
My phone lit up again.
Not a call this time.
A message.
Richard Hargrove, direct line, not routed through his assistant.
*Ms.
Osei.
I owe you an apology and an explanation.
Please give me ten minutes.
I will come to wherever you are.*
I read it twice.
Then I set the phone face-down on the seat.
"Hotel?" Marcus said.
"Hotel," I said.
We drove the rest of the way in silence.
When we pulled up to the entrance, Marcus got out first.
I was reaching for my bag when my phone lit up again.
Not Richard this time.
A name I had not seen in two years.
Claudette Hargrove.
May you like
I stared at the screen until it stopped ringing.
Then it rang again.
