CHAPTER 8
The emergency meeting of the Prescott Foundation Board of Directors was held on the top floor of the Four Seasons Hotel in downtown Miami.
Harold sat at the far end of the long glass table, looking ten years older, his designer suit hanging loosely on his slumped shoulders.
The twelve board members—the same wealthy men who had raised their glasses to his cruel jokes— sat in complete, terrified silence as I entered the room accompanied by Owen Rodgers and a team of five senior auditors.
"This board will come to order," Harold said weakly, trying to maintain a sliver of his former authority.
"This board is dissolved, Harold," I corrected calmly, taking my seat at the head of the table where he had sat for more than a decade.
I opened the thin folder in front of me, placing a single certified document in the center of the glass surface.
"As the legal owner of ninety-two percent of the underlying capital assets of the Prescott Foundation, I am revoking the foundation's charter effective immediately," I announced, looking around at the pale faces of the board members.
"You can't do that!" one of the senior investors blurted out. "The foundation controls millions in municipal grants!"
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"The foundation was built on stolen funds," I replied smoothly, my voice leaving no room for argument. "Starting today, it will be renamed the Robbins Philanthropic Maritime Trust. And every penny of its endowment will be directed toward funding scholarships for underprivileged women across the state of Florida."
Harold buried his face in his trembling hands, a broken man stripped of his wealth, his influence, and the artificial prestige he had stolen from an innocent woman twenty-seven years ago.
