Chapter 3 - The Morning After the Feast
Christmas Day at the Collins family estate in Dublin, Ohio, was traditionally a day of smug self-congratulation.
Martin Collins sat at the head of his ten-foot cherry dining table, a heavy crystal tumbler of twenty-year-old Scotch resting near his elbow. The fire crackled in his hearth, illuminating the polished hardwood floors and the oversized tree dripping with expensive European glass ornaments.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Martin declared, cutting into a thick slice of honey-glazed ham. He pointed his silver carving knife at Claire, who sat opposite her mother, Linda. “I told you eight years ago, Claire, a girl with your lineage had no business marrying a grease monkey. A man who drives an eight-year-old Ford F-150 with rust on the wheel wells! It made me sick every time he parked that heap in my driveway.”
Linda smiled thinly, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. “Well, at least Claire finally listened to reason. Now that she’s served him, we can focus on getting her matched with someone who actually belongs in the Muirfield Country Club crowd. Maybe one of the regional directors from Whitaker Construction.”
Claire swirled the white wine in her crystal glass, a slight smirk playing on her red-painted lips. She was thirty-four, impeccably dressed in an ivory cashmere sweater set, her diamond earrings catching the chandelier’s glow.
“He looked completely stunned,” Claire said, laughing softly. “He took that pathetic little girl by the hand and practically ran out into the blizzard. He didn't even say a word.”
“Because he has nothing to say,” Brad sneered, slumping back in his chair. Brad was Claire’s older brother, thirty-six, whose primary occupation consisted of sitting in a private office at Whitaker Construction’s North Warehouse, supposedly managing regional equipment inventory for a base salary of $185,000 a year. “The guy makes forty bucks an hour crawling under sinks. He knows if he fights you in court, your legal team will take his tools and his beat-up truck.”
“What about the house?” Linda asked, leaning forward with predatory interest. “The three-bedroom on Elm Street. Is it worth anything?”
“It’s a starter house,” Claire waved a dismissive, manicured hand. “He bought it before we got married, but Ohio is an equitable distribution state. My attorney says we can force a sale and take half the equity to pay off my credit cards. Plus, I’ll get alimony based on his overtime earnings. He’s always working late—probably hiding cash under the mattress.”
Martin chuckled, deep and chesty. “Well, don't worry about cash anymore, darling. Come January, your old man is getting bumped up to Vice President of Field Operations at the main office.”
Trevor, the younger brother, perked up. “Did you talk to the CEO yet, Dad?”
“I haven't met the big guy personally yet—Whitaker keeps himself locked away up on twenty-four, deals mostly with hedge fund managers and state infrastructure boards,” Martin boasted, puffing out his chest. “But Vance, the COO, knows who brings the real experience to this outfit. I’ve been running the regional advisory team for six years. Vance knows that without the Collins name anchoring the Columbus subcontractors, this entire branch would collapse.”
“Here’s to the Collins family,” Brad toasted, raising his tumbler. “And to cutting out the dead weight.”
Glasses clinked. Laughter echoed through the warm, vaulted room.
They spent the rest of Christmas Day opening imported leather luggage, unboxing designer wristwatches bought on Whitaker company expense accounts, and congratulating themselves on their collective brilliance.
The following morning—December twenty-sixth—broke gray, crisp, and bitterly cold.
By 7:15 AM, the executive parking plaza at Whitaker Construction’s headquarters was beginning to fill with company trucks and luxury European sedans.
Martin Collins pulled his pearl-white Lincoln Navigator—a vehicle leased through the company’s executive fleet program—into the reserved stall marked *M. Collins – Senior Consultant*.
Behind him, Brad parked his brand-new customized company-issued Silverado High Country, while Trevor sauntered out of an Audi S5 purchased through the department's "discretionary entertainment budget."
The three men walked toward the towering glass entrance of the headquarters, laughing and shaking the cold from their heavy wool overcoats.
“Hey, Brad,” Martin said, adjusting his Italian silk tie. “Make sure you sign off on those concrete invoices from Miller Brothers today. They gave us that five percent kickback voucher for the resort in Cabo. I want the flights booked before New Year's.”
“Already handled, Dad,” Brad smirked. “I logged it under ‘site remediation equipment rentals.’ Accounting never even looks at receipts under ten grand.”
They pushed through the heavy revolving glass doors into the marble lobby.
Standing by the bank of polished security turnstiles were four armed private security officers in crisp navy blazers, flanking the head of building security, a retired state trooper named Davis.
Martin strode forward with his typical bluster, pulling his company ID lanyard from beneath his coat. “Morning, Davis. Nasty wind out there. You boys should get the building engineers to turn up the lobby blowers.”
Martin tapped his badge against the RFID scanner on the turnstile.
A sharp, abrasive red flash illuminated the digital screen. A harsh electronic buzz cut through the quiet lobby.
**ACCESS DENIED: CONTACT CORPORATE SECURITY.**
Martin frowned, tapping the card again, harder this time.
*BUZZ.*
“What the hell is wrong with your sensors, Davis?” Martin snapped, glaring at the guard. “I’ve got an eight o’clock meeting with regional management.”
Brad stepped forward, chuckling. “Watch a real man do it, Dad.” He tapped his own badge against the reader.
*BUZZ.*
**ACCESS DENIED: CREDENTIALS REVOKED.**
Trevor’s card produced the exact same result.
The three men stood frozen in front of the waist-high glass barrier, the color rising quickly in Martin’s fleshy neck.
“What is the meaning of this?” Martin barked, slamming his palm down on the top of the barrier. “Do you know who I am? I am the Senior Field Consultant for this entire division! Swipe us through right now, Davis, before I have Vance write you up for insubordination!”
Officer Davis did not blink. His hands remained clasped behind his back, his expression entirely deadpan.
“Mr. Collins,” Davis said calmly. “All forty-seven security credentials belonging to members of the Collins personnel directory were deactivated at midnight by executive order.”
“What?!” Martin shouted, his face turning the color of a fresh beet. “By whose executive order? Vance? I’ll have his job!”
“Not Mr. Vance,” Davis replied smoothly. He touched his earpiece, listened for a fraction of a second, and then stepped aside, gesturing toward the private service elevator that led straight to the twenty-fourth floor.
“The Chief Executive Officer is waiting for you in the Grand Boardroom,” Davis said, his voice dropping into chilling formality. “All three of you. Along with the rest of your relatives who just arrived in the staging area.”
Martin’s chest swelled with instantaneous arrogance. He turned to Brad and Trevor, a smug, triumphant grin spreading across his face.
“You see that?” Martin chuckled, straightening his lapels. “I told you. The old man Whitaker himself wants to handle our promotion directly. He probably heard about Vance trying to micromanage our expense lines and decided to cut out the middleman.”
“Man, for a second there, I thought we were actually in trouble,” Brad laughed, shaking his head.
May you like
“Trouble?” Martin scoffed, leading his sons toward the open elevator car. “Whitaker needs us. Without the Collins family, this company is just an empty shell. Let’s go show this billionaire how real men do business.”
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