Chapter 2 - The Sinking Ship
On the morning of December twenty-eighth, Daniel Brooks stood in the center of what was supposed to be the reception lobby of *The Sovereign*, smelling damp plaster, burnt electrical wiring, and the bitter dregs of stale espresso.
"What do you mean, they won't release the linens?" Daniel’s voice cracked. He adjusted the collar of his tailored overcoat—a charcoal Ralph Lauren piece he had bought specifically for the opening press day. "We paid the deposit on the sixteenth."
Across from him stood Martin Finch, the project manager whom Graham had hired on a bargain-rate contract after Daniel fired the previous firm for being 'unimaginative.'
"They didn't receive the balance, Mr. Brooks," Finch said, rubbing bloodshot eyes. "The terms were clear: fifty percent on confirmation, fifty percent upon dispatch. Your accounts department sent a remittance advice, but the bank bounced the transfer yesterday afternoon."
"That's an administrative error," Daniel snapped, though his chest tightened until it was hard to breathe. "My father's office handles clearing."
"Well, the trucks are idling in a depot outside Dartford, and the driver won't roll until the funds clear the clearinghouse. That’s three hundred suites without towels, duvets, or robes. Press preview is in four days."
Daniel turned away, pacing across the unfinished chevron-patterned oak floor. The wood was dusty, covered in cardboard runners that had begun to curl and tear under the boots of drywallers. In the far corner, a scaffold remained upright beneath the mezzanine ceiling. Two electricians were leaning against a tool chest, drinking tea from thermoses, pointedly not working.
"Why aren't they wiring the chandelier?" Daniel demanded, pointing an accusing finger.
"Union regulations," Finch said flatly. "They’ve hit their overtime cap for the week. Unless your father authorizes another fifteen thousand for holiday night rates, they don't pick up a screwdriver until the second of January."
"This is ridiculous!" Daniel shouted. The empty atrium echoed his voice, turning it shrill. "This is an international launch! Do they not understand the profile of this project? We have *Vogue Living* coming on Monday! Lord Hetherington is cutting the ribbon!"
"Lord Hetherington won't have a toilet that flushes on the third floor if the water pressure pumps aren't signed off by the council inspector," Finch replied, his voice maddeningly level. "And the council inspector refuses to visit until the fire safety certificates for the wall paneling are stamped. That’s another thirty thousand to the testing lab in Milton Keynes."
Daniel’s hands were shaking. He reached for his phone, retreating into the half-finished manager's office behind the grand reception desk.
He dialed his father’s direct line.
"Dad," Daniel said the moment the call connected. "The bank held the linen wire. Did accounts forget to authorize the liquidity transfer from the regional hotel chain?"
There was a long silence on the line. Graham Brooks did not usually hesitate. When Graham spoke, it was with the deliberate, heavy authority of a man who owned six thousand rooms between Birmingham and Bristol.
"Graham?"
"We have a problem with Barclays," Graham said. His voice was lower than usual, stripped of its bluster. "They've flagged the bridge loan."
Daniel felt the blood drop from his head. "Flagged it? What does that mean? The bridge loan was approved two months ago."
"It was approved subject to cash reserves remaining above four million across the holding company," Graham said. "The fuel bills from the northern properties came in forty percent higher for the quarter, and the winter occupancy in Leeds dropped nine percent. The covenant tripped on Friday. Barclays froze the drawdown facility until we inject more collateral."
"Collateral?" Daniel cried, gripping his hair. "What collateral? Everything is mortgaged! We mortgaged the Surrey estate to guarantee the mezzanine mezzanine debt!"
"Keep your voice down," Graham growled. "I am aware of the numbers, Daniel. I built this company while you were still failing your A-levels."
"Then fix it! Dad, the press are coming in ninety-six hours! If we don't open those doors, the industry will eat me alive! Do you know what *The Caterer* will write? Do you know what the investors will do?"
"Where is your sister?" Graham asked abruptly.
The question caught Daniel like a slap. "What?"
"Evelyn. Have you heard from her?"
Daniel swallowed hard. His mind flashed back to Christmas night: the snow falling through the doorway, Evelyn’s pale, frozen face, her silence as the lock clicked. And then the next morning, her empty room, her single suitcase still sitting in the corner—she hadn't even had shoes.
"No," Daniel muttered. "Why would I? You threw her out into the blizzard, Dad. Lucy has her coat."
"She’s staying with a friend in London," Graham said dismissively, though there was an edge of uncertainty in his tone. "She always had those corporate acquaintances with apartments in Battersea. She’s sulking. Call her."
"Call her and say what?"
"Tell her to come to the site," Graham said. "Tell her... tell her we'll give her the title of Project Director for the launch. Tell her she can have an expense account. She knows the people at the council; she worked with Westminster licensing when she was at Meridian. She can get the fire permits cleared by tomorrow afternoon with one phone call."
Daniel let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. "You think she’s going to fix this because you offer her an expense account? You shoved her down the front steps!"
"She is my daughter," Graham boomed, the familiar steel returning to his tone. "And this is the family name on the facade! She will not sit by and let *The Brooks* name be dragged through the mud over a petty domestic disagreement. Call her, Daniel. Now."
Daniel hung up. He leaned against the bare plaster wall, feeling the cold seep through his expensive coat.
He found her number in his contacts. *Evelyn - Work*. He hadn't changed the label in three years.
He pressed call.
The phone rang four times. Then a polite, automated voice answered:
*"The number you have dialed is no longer in service. For matters regarding Aethel Capital, please direct your inquiry to [email protected]."*
Daniel stared at the screen.
*Aethel Capital?*
Before he could process the name, the double glass doors of the lobby swung open with a violent rush of winter wind. Lucy walked in, wearing the cream Max Mara coat, carrying three shopping bags from Harrods. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her eyes bright with the oblivious excitement of someone whose only job was showing up for the photographs.
"Daniel!" she chirped, looking around the cavernous, dusty room with a slight frown. "Why is it so messy in here? The flowers for the preview party—do you want white orchids or blush roses? The florist needs an answer, and Dad’s card was declined at the counter."
May you like
Daniel closed his eyes. The migraine began behind his left temple, throbbing in time with the distant, useless drip of a leaking pipe somewhere in the darkness above.
***
