Chapter 2 - Stranded in the Storm
The Bozeman airport was absolute pandemonium. Hundreds of stranded passengers fought over canceled flights, rental cars, and the few remaining hotel rooms in the valley. The storm howling outside the terminal windows was a wall of blinding white.
I didn't wait in line. I bypassed the crowds, walking directly to the private aviation desk. Three swipes of my Centurion card secured the only available heavily armored winter SUV and the presidential suite at a private ski lodge thirty miles out of town that was usually reserved for Hollywood executives.
Cassandra didn't argue. She was exhausted, and Luke was starting to cough, a dry, rattling sound that made her instantly tense.
When we finally reached the lodge, the suite was massive, all vaulted ceilings, roaring stone fireplaces, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the snow-covered mountains. I ordered room service, tipping the bellhop a hundred-dollar bill to bring up a selection of children’s toys from the lodge’s gift shop.
Sitting on the plush rug by the fire, I helped Luke snap a wooden train track together. My hands, used to signing multi-million dollar contracts, felt impossibly clumsy assembling tiny magnetic train cars. Luke looked up at me, that dimple flashing on his cheek. “You’re good at building, Mr. Damon.”
“Just Damon, buddy,” I said softly, my chest aching. “Or whatever you want to call me.”
Cassandra sat on the sofa, watching us with a guarded, complex expression while Violet slept against her chest. Once Luke was engrossed in the trains, I poured two glasses of sparkling water, handed one to Cassandra, and sat on the coffee table facing her.
“Why Denver?” I asked gently. “You live in Portland. Why were you flying to Colorado on Christmas Eve?”
Cassandra looked down at Violet, her hand instinctively resting on the little girl’s back. “Violet was born with a congenital heart defect. A severe ventricular septal defect, complicated by pulmonary hypertension. She needs a highly specialized pediatric surgery to repair it before her heart sustains permanent damage.”
My blood ran cold for the second time that night. I looked at the fragile little girl sleeping so peacefully. My daughter.
“The only facility with the technology and the surgical team capable of performing the procedure with a high success rate is the Calder Institute in Denver,” Cassandra explained, her voice trembling. “We have an appointment tomorrow morning. If she doesn't get this surgery soon, Damon… her heart is going to fail.”
The glass in my hand shattered.
The water and shards of crystal spilled across the hardwood floor, but I couldn't feel the sting in my palm. The Calder Institute. The medical platform Prescott Technologies was acquiring. The $780 million deal Marcus was frantically demanding I sign.
I stood up, pulling a towel from the bathroom to wrap my bleeding hand, my mind racing at light speed. Marcus had sent me an amended contract three days ago, claiming the legal team needed to restructure the asset absorption. I had skimmed it, trusting him.
I pulled my laptop from my briefcase, connected to the lodge’s high-speed internet, and opened the encrypted legal files Marcus had sent. I didn't skim this time. I read every single line of the restructuring clause.
It wasn't an acquisition. It was a liquidation.
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Marcus had manipulated the contract. The moment I applied my digital signature, the Calder Institute wouldn’t be absorbed into our healthcare division; its assets would be stripped, sold for parts to a private equity firm Marcus secretly had a stake in, and the facility would be shut down by the end of the year.
If I had signed that document on the plane to secure my legacy, I would have signed my own daughter’s death warrant.
