Chapter 3 - The Panic at the Palace
Back at the Escalante mansion, the music had stopped.
The grand ballroom, illuminated by imported crystal chandeliers, was filled with a tense, murmuring dread. Andrew stood at the main bar, his face flushed a dark, angry purple as the catering manager, a young man who had always treated the Escalantes with absolute sycophancy, held out a tablet with a blinking red notification.
"What do you mean, declined?" Andrew shouted, his voice echoing off the high marble ceilings, causing several guests to lower their champagne glasses. "This is an unlimited corporate black card! There is no limit! Call the bank manager immediately! I know the regional VP!"
"I’m sorry, Mr. Escalante," the manager whispered, his eyes darting to the guests who were now whispering among themselves. "We tried the transaction three times. The system says 'Account Restricted — Fraud Alert.' The bank has locked the entire corporate profile. We cannot process the payment for the staff, the orchestra, or the imported caviar."
Margaret Escalante, her neck still stiff with the pride of her generation, stepped forward, her velvet jewelry box clutched tightly in her hand. "Don't be absurd, young man. This is the Escalante estate. Our family founded the municipal bank fifty years ago. Andrew, call Charles. He’ll clear this up in a second."
Andrew snatched his phone from his pocket, his fingers shaking with a mixture of rage and growing humiliation. He didn't call the bank VP. He called the number he had just tried three times before.
Mariana.
"Answer the damn phone, you worthless peasant," he muttered under his breath, stepping away from the bar toward the grand foyer where he had just ordered me to crawl out.
Brenda followed him, her scarlet gown rustling against the marble floor, her hand wrapping tightly around his arm. "Andrew, sweetheart, what's going on? The staff is refusing to serve the main course. The guests are starting to ask questions. My friends from the fashion council are here—this is supposed to be my debut as the new director!"
"Shut up, Brenda! I'm handling it!" Andrew snapped, pushing her hand away as he listened to the automated recording on the other end of the line: The number you have dialed is currently unavailable or has restricted incoming traffic.
"She turned off her phone," Andrew gasped, a cold sweat finally breaking out along his hairline. "She actually turned it off. She thinks she can scare me with this petty budgeting stunt."
"It’s not a budgeting stunt, Andrew," a quiet, trembling voice said from the shadow of the grand staircase.
It was Marcus, the chief financial officer of Escalante Industries. He was holding his laptop, his tie completely undone, his face the color of old parchment. He had left the party twenty minutes ago when his corporate email access was suddenly revoked on his personal device.
"Marcus? What the hell are you doing with your computer at my party?" Andrew demanded, his chest heaving.
"Andrew... we have a catastrophic compliance failure," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a register of pure terror. "It’s not just your credit card. The primary treasury accounts for the entire corporate group have just been drained. Twelve separate domestic branches have reported that their capital reserves have been moved to an offshore escrow account under the name Mendoza Global Holdings."
Andrew blinked, his brain refusing to process the words. "Mendoza? Who the hell is Mendoza? We don't have an investor named Mendoza!"
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"We don't," Marcus whispered, looking up at the grand portrait of Andrew’s father hanging over the mantle. "But Mariana’s maiden name... her legal identification before you married her... was Mariana Mendoza. Andrew... her father isn't a retired grocery wholesaler from the suburbs. He’s Alejandro Mendoza. The man who bought out our primary debt structure four years ago."
The silence that fell over the foyer this time wasn't the suffocating silence of humiliation Andrew had created. It was the heavy, crushing silence of a trap snapping shut.
