Chapter 3 - The Arrival of Wexler Capital
Twenty minutes later, the headlights of three black Cadillac Escalades swept across the floor-to-ceiling windows of the villa. The heavy rumble of their engines shook the gravel driveway.
I walked down the stairs just as the heavy oak front doors were literally pushed open. Gavin’s private security guards didn't even attempt to stop the men entering; they knew exactly who those men worked for.
Four imposing men in tailored black suits stepped inside, clearing a path. And then walked in Malcolm Wexler.
At sixty-two, my father still commanded every room he entered. Dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit, his silver hair immaculate, his eyes were sharp pieces of flint. Behind him walked Arthur Pendelton, the chief legal counsel for Wexler Capital, carrying a thick leather briefcase.
Gavin stood up from the sofa, his face a mix of confusion and sudden panic. He recognized Malcolm, of course, but he hadn't seen him in person for years. Gavin had convinced himself that Malcolm was a retired, senile old man who had long forgotten about the small logistics company.
"Mr. Wexler!" Gavin said, forcing a corporate smile, though his voice pitched a bit higher than usual. "What an unexpected surprise. If I had known you were visiting, I would have arranged a proper dinner. Clara, why didn't you tell me your father was coming?"
My father didn't look at Gavin. His eyes swept the room until they found me standing at the base of the stairs. He walked past Gavin as if the man were made of glass, stepping directly up to me. He gently touched my shoulder, his eyes scanning my face and noting the slight bruising near my hairline from where I had fallen.
"Are you alright, Clara?" he asked softly.
"I am now, Dad," I replied, holding his gaze.
Malcolm nodded once. It was a signal. He turned around slowly to face Gavin.
Brielle had stood up by now, looking uncomfortable but still trying to project an air of superiority. "Gavin, honey, who is this old man? And why are his bodyguards invading our home?"
"Brielle, shut up," Gavin hissed under his breath, his forehead beginning to sweat. He turned back to my father. "Look, Malcolm, I know Clara might have called you. We’re having some marital difficulties. She’s been unstable lately, interfering with company business, and I’ve had to make the difficult decision to ask her to leave. It's strictly personal."
"Marital difficulties," my father repeated, the words tasting like poison in his mouth. He walked over to the armchair Brielle had just vacated, picked up her glass of champagne, and looked at the wedding ring resting at the bottom. He poured the champagne onto the pristine Persian rug, let the ring fall to the floor, and crushed it beneath his leather oxford shoe.
Gavin winced.
"Gavin," my father said, sitting down in the center chair, completely taking over the room. "You have spent the last few years believing your own press releases. You truly believe you are a titan of industry, don't you?"
"I built Rourke Logistics from a two-truck operation into a multi-million dollar corporation, Mr. Wexler," Gavin said, trying to regain his posture, his arrogance flaring up. "With all due respect, I appreciate the early loans you gave us, but I am the CEO. I own this empire."
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Arthur Pendelton, the lawyer, stepped forward and opened his briefcase on the coffee table. He pulled out a stack of heavily stamped legal documents.
"Mr. Rourke," Arthur said, his voice entirely clinical. "You own exactly zero percent of Rourke Logistics. You are an employee. An at-will employee, to be precise."
