Chapter 4 - THE SUMMONS
Forty-eight hours later, Aaron and Brittany stepped out of Logan International Airport into the biting Boston chill. They had flown coach on a red-eye flight, packed into cramped middle seats, surrounded by crying infants and the lingering stench of cheap coffee.
Their luxury lifestyle hadn't just evaporated; it had been vaporized in less than forty-eight hours.
When they arrived at their luxury downtown apartment—rented on a lease Vincent had promised to cover—they found an orange eviction notice plastered across the mahogany front door. The locks had been changed. Their luggage was sitting in three plastic storage bins in the lobby, guarded by a bored building superintendent who wouldn't even look them in the eye.
"This is a nightmare," Brittany shrieked, tears of pure rage streaking her makeup as she kicked one of the plastic bins. "Your father did this! Your pathetic, trailer-trash father did this to us!"
"Shut up, Brittany!" Aaron snapped back, his hands trembling as he clutched his phone. He had tried calling his mother twenty times, but Diane’s phone went straight to voicemail.
As if on cue, a sleek black town car pulled up to the curb. The rear window rolled down smoothly, revealing a tall, impeccably dressed man in a charcoal suit.
"Mr. Aaron Becker?" the driver asked in a neutral, professional tone.
"Who are you?" Aaron demanded.
"My name is Pierce. I represent Atlas Holdings. Your presence—along with Ms. Gallagher—is requested at our downtown headquarters immediately. A car has been provided for your convenience."
Brittany glared at Aaron. "Well? Are we going?"
"We don't have a choice," Aaron muttered, his bravado entirely gone, replaced by a cold, sickening dread in the pit of his stomach.
The ride to downtown Boston was silent. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows of the town car until it pulled up in front of the most imposing skyscraper in the financial district—Atlas Tower.
Aaron had walked past this glass monolith a hundred times during his college days, assuming it belonged to some ruthless billionaire conglomerate far beyond his world. He had never imagined walking through its revolving doors.
Pierce escorted them past private security, up a secure elevator bank that bypassed the main lobby, and straight to the 48th floor.
The elevator doors slid open to reveal a sprawling, minimalist boardroom with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Boston harbor. A single massive mahogany table dominated the center of the room.
At the far end of the table sat Vincent Gallagher, looking ten years older, his expensive suit wrinkled and unbuttoned at the collar. He was sweating profusely, staring blankly at a thick stack of legal documents spread out before him.
And sitting at the head of the table, calmly sipping black coffee from a plain white mug, was a man in a simple navy blazer and an open-collared shirt.
May you like
It was my old sedan jacket. It was my calm, steady demeanor.
It was my father.
