CHAPTER 7
Two days later, the story broke on the front page of the Miami Herald and exploded across every major business network across the nation.
"PRESCOTT EMPIRE FROZEN: WIFE RECLAIMS STOLEN $400M MARITIME TRUST."
The very socialites who had laughed at Harold's twenty-dollar bid at the Fontainebleau were now flooding my personal cell phone with desperate apologies, dinner invitations, and frantic messages seeking my favor.
I ignored every single one of them.
Instead, I sat in the executive corner office of Rodgers Capital on Brickell Avenue, watching federal marshals enter the Prescott Foundation headquarters across the street to audit the financial ledgers.
Harold's attorneys had spent forty-eight hours trying to draft a settlement offer, offering me fifty percent of his current liquid assets if I agreed to drop the fraud charges against his late father's estate.
Owen walked into the office, carrying two mugs of fresh coffee, handing one to me before leaning against the mahogany desk.
"They're offering a quiet divorce settlement," Owen noted, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Harold wants to keep his name on the board of the maritime group."
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I took a slow sip of the hot coffee, looking out over the blue waters of Biscayne Bay where massive cargo ships glided peacefully into the port—ships that my father had once helped steer into the modern era.
"Tell his lawyers the answer is no," I said firmly, turning to look at Owen with absolute determination. "I want a full surrender of the Prescott Foundation, an immediate eviction from the Coral Gables home, and a public retraction of every financial statement he has made in the last twenty-seven years."
