Chapter 8: The Media Storm
By mid-afternoon, the story had exploded across national news networks.
BREAKING: PRESCROTT INDUSTRIES FEDERAL RAIDED; DEFENSE CONTRACTS SUSPENDED AMID FRAUD ALLEGATIONS.
Flashing news banners on CNN, Fox News, and MSNBC blared headlines of corporate corruption, domestic abuse cover-ups, and an active-duty U.S. Army Colonel who single-handedly brought down one of North Carolina's most untouchable dynasties. Social media was flooded with clips of the federal agents walking into the Prescott skyscraper, juxtaposed with old photographs of Colonel Victoria Hart receiving her military service medals.
Inside the crumbling mansion of the Prescott Estate, the television screen was screaming the family's shame into an empty room.
Brandon Prescott stood frozen in front of the giant flat-screen, a glass of warm scotch shaking in his hand. His phone had been buzzing nonstop for the past hour—investors pulling out, board members resigning en masse, and federal prosecutors rejecting every single settlement offer his legal team attempted to pitch.
"They're destroying us," Brandon muttered, his voice hollow. "Mother, do you hear this? Our stock has plummeted eighty percent in four hours. The government is canceling every single municipal and federal contract we hold."
Margaret sat motionless in her high-backed armchair by the fireplace. The fire had long since died out, leaving only cold gray ash. She didn't look at the television. Her eyes were fixed on a framed photograph of Ethan and Emily's wedding day—a wedding the Prescotts had orchestrated to expand their social footprint, treating Emily like a trophy asset rather than a human being.
"We underestimated her," Margaret said quietly, her voice devoid of its usual aristocratic sharpness. It sounded old. Tired. Broken.
"We need to cut Ethan loose," Brandon said frantically, pacing the length of the rug. "We pin the domestic abuse allegations entirely on him, claim the corporate division operated without our knowledge, and try to salvage whatever remains of the foundation—"
"It's too late, Brandon," Margaret interrupted, closing her eyes. "A military officer didn't just beat us in the courts. She exposed the rot at the very foundation of everything we built. We are finished."
Before Brandon could answer, the heavy front doors of the estate echoed with a loud, heavy knock.
May you like
Not the polite knock of a visitor or a business associate.
The unmistakable knock of federal marshals executing a property seizure warrant.
