Chapter 5 - THE BOARDROOM BLOODBATH
The boardroom of Bishop Hotels was on the fortieth floor of the company’s midtown Manhattan skyscraper—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, a mahogany table long enough to seat twenty, leather chairs so soft they practically swallowed you when you sat down. My father had sat in that very room a dozen times over the last two years, approving loan extensions, restructuring debt, listening to Michael and his father brag about their “vision” for the company while quietly bleeding it dry.
Today, he sat at the head of the table.
The room was packed. All twelve members of the board of directors were there—gray-haired men in expensive suits, a few token women, all of them wearing the same tight, anxious expressions. The stock price was hovering at $26 and change, down almost fifty percent in two days. The credit downgrade to junk status had hit that morning. The company’s line of credit had been frozen. Vendors were already calling, demanding cash up front before they’d deliver another bar of soap or another case of wine to any Bishop property. The whole empire was circling the drain, and everyone in the room knew it.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” my father said, his voice carrying easily through the quiet room. He didn’t raise his voice. He never did. People listened to James Bennett when he spoke because they knew the cost of not listening. “I know you’re all aware of the… difficulties the company has been facing over the last forty-eight hours. I’m here today in my capacity as majority shareholder—Bennett Ridge Capital currently holds fifty-two percent of the outstanding voting stock of Bishop Hotels—to call this meeting to order and address the future of this company.”
One of the board members—an older man named Arthur Hale, who’d been on the board since Michael’s grandfather ran the company—cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Mr. Bennett, where is Michael? He’s the CEO. He should be here leading this discussion. And where is Richard? Richard Bishop has been chairman of this board for thirty years. Why isn’t he sitting in that seat?”
My father’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Michael Bishop is currently in police custody, Mr. Hale. He was arrested yesterday morning on charges of aggravated assault, mayhem, domestic violence, witness tampering, and making terroristic threats against his wife. His mother, Lorraine, was arrested on identical charges. Richard Bishop is currently in Switzerland—we’ve been trying to reach him for twenty-four hours, but it seems he’s decided to extend his ‘ski vacation’ indefinitely rather than face the mess his family has made.”
A murmur of shock rippled around the table. Most of them had seen the headlines, of course—Bishop Heir Arrested In Brutal Assault On New Bride—but they’d all assumed it was some sort of tabloid exaggeration, a misunderstanding that would be cleared up with a few well-placed phone calls. Hearing it confirmed so bluntly by the majority shareholder was a different matter entirely.
“Assault?” Hale sputtered. “That’s… that’s impossible. Michael would never—”
“Here’s the video,” my father said, cutting him off. He nodded to his assistant, who pressed a button on the tablet in front of her. The large screen at the front of the room flickered to life.
The room went dead silent as the footage played.
They watched Lorraine raise the bottle. They heard her scream her insults. They saw Michael grab my arms, hold me still. They heard him tell me to stop overreacting. They watched him step over my writhing, screaming body to check the rug. The video played in its entirety—four minutes and seventeen seconds of pure, unadulterated horror. When it ended, the screen went black. No one spoke. No one even breathed.
“Michael Bishop held his wife down while his mother tried to blind her,” my father said into the silence. His voice was ice. “That woman on the video? The one they called ‘dirty’ and ‘broke’ and ‘trash’? That’s my daughter. Elena Bennett. The sole heir to Bennett Ridge Capital. The girl Michael spent eighteen months lying to, because he thought she was an easy mark—a poor, naive girl he could manipulate and control and discard whenever it suited him.”
He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table in front of him. “I’m not going to waste your time with moral outrage. We’re all businessmen here. We understand that people do terrible things. But what you need to understand—what you must understand—is that as long as anyone named Bishop has anything to do with this company? Bennett Ridge Capital will not invest another dime. We will not extend credit. We will not restructure debt. We will not do anything to keep this company afloat. In fact, unless every last Bishop is removed from this company today—effective immediately—I will personally ensure that Bishop Hotels declares bankruptcy before the sun sets tonight. Every hotel will close. Every employee will be laid off. Every one of you will lose every penny you’ve invested in this company. And I will walk away with whatever is left of the assets for pennies on the dollar.”
He paused, letting the words sink in. “Your choice, gentlemen. Vote to remove Michael Bishop as CEO and every other Bishop family member from any position of authority in this company, effective immediately. Or go down with the ship. Which is it going to be?”
It took exactly twelve minutes.
The vote was unanimous. Twelve to zero. Michael was removed as CEO. His cousin was fired from his position as head of operations. His uncle was removed from the board. Every single person with the last name Bishop who’d been drawing a paycheck from the company was out on their ear, effective immediately.
Arthur Hale was appointed interim CEO. The board voted unanimously to accept my father’s offer of a new credit line—one with much stricter terms, much higher interest, and a requirement that Bennett Ridge approve every major decision the company made for the next five years. It was a hostile takeover in all but name. The Bishop family was out. The Bennetts were in.
My father stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. “Good decision. I’ll have my team draw up the paperwork this afternoon. The first order of business: we’re putting the Westchester estate on the market. Immediately. It’s a company asset—used for corporate retreats and client entertaining—and it’s the only unencumbered property the family has left. We’ll list it for twelve million. Sell it fast. Use the proceeds to make payroll at the hotels for the next three months while we restructure.”
He walked toward the door, then paused, looking back at the stunned faces around the table. “And gentlemen? One more thing. Not a word of this leaves this room. Not about my daughter. Not about my involvement. Not about anything that was discussed here today. The Bishops don’t get to know what hit them until we’re good and ready to tell them. Is that clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, Mr. Bennett” followed him out the door.
He called me from the elevator, his voice grimly satisfied. “It’s done, kiddo. They’re gone. Every last one of them. The company’s ours now, for all intents and purposes. And the mansion? We’re selling it out from under them. By the time Lorraine and Michael make bail, they won’t even have a roof over their heads.”
I lay back on my hospital bed, a small smile playing on my lips. “Perfect, Dad. Absolutely perfect.”
“One more thing,” he said. “I just got off the phone with our lawyer. The judge denied bail. Both of them. Remanded into custody until trial. The DA argued that they’re both extreme flight risks—they have the money and the connections to disappear to a country without an extradition treaty—and the judge agreed. They’re going to be sitting in Rikers for the next however many months it takes to get to trial. No bail. No house arrest. Just them and a cell and a lot of time to think about what they did.”
The news hit me like a physical blow. No bail. Rikers. I’d known it was a possibility, of course—Detective Ramirez had mentioned it. But I’d never actually let myself believe it would happen. Michael Bishop, who’d never spent a night anywhere that didn’t have 500-thread-count sheets and a butler on call, was going to be in Rikers Island. Lorraine, who’d once fired a maid because the towels weren’t folded to her exact specifications, was going to be sharing a cell with drug dealers and prostitutes.
“Elena?” My father’s voice was concerned. “You okay, baby? I know that’s a lot to take in.”
“I’m fine,” I said, and I realized I was. I was more than fine. “Dad? When’s the arraignment again?”
“Day after tomorrow. Nine a.m. Manhattan Criminal Court. Why?”
May you like
I sat up, reaching for the designer sunglasses my mother had left on the bedside table—the huge, dark ones that hid almost all of the swelling and redness around my eyes.
“Because,” I said, a cold, fierce joy rising in my chest. “I’m going to be there. And I’m going to look them in the eye. And I’m going to make sure they know exactly who’s responsible for every single bad thing that’s happened to them.”
