I watched from my chair, astounded by the sheer delusion. She was trying to crowdfund a $5 million corporate debt from teenagers who followed her for makeup tips. It was pathetic, but Damon reaction was explosive.
He had been on the phone with another rejection, but the word GoFundMe caught his ear like a gunshot. He crossed the room in two long strides and snatched the phone out of Britney hand. The ring light toppled over, crashing onto the stone hearth.
Britney shrieked, reaching for her device. “What are you doing, Damon? I was recording.”
Damon stared at her, his face twisting with disbelief and rage. He looked at the screen where the donation page was already live, titled, “Help the Wilson family keep their home.” He tapped the delete button violently, his thumb hitting the screen hard enough to crack it.
“Are you insane?” he shouted, throwing the phone onto the sofa. “Do you have any brain cells left in that head of yours? You are begging strangers for money on the internet.”
“I was trying to help,” Britney yelled back, her face flushing red. “I have loyal followers, Damon. They love me. They would help us.”
Damon laughed a harsh barking sound that had no humor in it. “They do not love you, Britney. They watch you because you are rich and pretty. If they find out we are broke, they will not send money. They will laugh at us.”
“Do you want the whole world to know we are insolvent? Do you want Titanium Ventures to see this and know we are desperate? You are not saving our reputation. You are destroying it.” He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the roots. “We are trying to negotiate a deal here. We need to look strong. We need to look like we have options. If they see you begging for $5 online, they will know we have nothing. You are making us look like a charity case.”
Britney shrank back into the sofa cushions, clutching her phone to her chest. “I just wanted to do something,” she whimpered.
Damon turned his back on her, unable to even look at his wife. “Then do nothing,” he snapped. “Sit there and be quiet. That is the only way you can help right now.”
The room fell silent again, save for Britney, quiet sobbing. The great influencer had been silenced. The golden couple was cracking apart at the seams, and I just sat there sipping my tea, watching the empire crumble one Instagram post at a time.
The silence in the living room was thick enough to choke on. Damon sat with his head in his hands, the picture of a defeated man. While Britney scrolled aimlessly through her phone, her earlier bravado completely extinguished. Pamela was staring out the window at the blizzard, her face a mask of bitter calculation.
I decided it was time to gently nudge the dominoes I had set up. I cleared my throat softly, setting my teacup down on the saucer with a deliberate clink.
“You know,” I said, keeping my tone light and hesitant, “I read an article in the Wall Street Journal a few weeks ago about firms like Titanium Ventures. They specialize in distressed assets, but their strategy is usually operational. They do not just want to strip assets, they want to turn them around.”
Damon lifted his head slowly, his eyes bloodshot and filled with irritation. “What are you babbling about, Audrey? I am trying to save a company here. I do not need a book report.”
I ignored his tone and continued, pressing the bait into the water. “I am just saying. Since they are an investment firm, they probably do not have people on the ground here in Aspen. They do not know the local market or the staff or the vendors. Maybe they are looking for a local operating partner, someone to run the hotel for them while they manage the financials. If you approach them with a plan to stay on as management, maybe they would renegotiate the debt.”
I watched the idea land. I saw the flicker of hope in Pamela eyes, but Damon ego was a fortress that could not be breached by logic, especially when that logic came from me. He let out a harsh, derisive laugh.
“Oh my god,” he groaned, rubbing his temples. “Did you hear that, Pamela? Audrey thinks she understands high finance because she read one article.” He turned to me, his expression dripping with condescension. “Listen to me very carefully, Audrey. This is mergers and acquisitions. This is the big leagues. It is not running a lemonade stand or selling crafts on Etsy. Titanium Ventures does not want partners. They want blood. They are sharks and sharks do not negotiate with the bait.”
“But what if she is right?” Pamela interjected, her survival instinct kicking in. “What do we have to lose, Damon? If we offer our expertise, maybe they will let us keep a minority stake. We know the hotel better than anyone.”
Damon slammed his hand on the table, making the silverware jump. “Because it is a waste of time, Mom, and I do not have time to waste on fantasies cooked up by a medical school dropout.” He glared at me, pointing a finger. “Do us all a favor, Audrey, and sit there. Let the adults handle the business. Go back to your coloring book or whatever it is you do all day. You know nothing about this world.”
I picked up my book again, hiding my face. I knew nothing about this world, he said. The irony was delicious. He was lecturing the architect about the design of the building. He was explaining the game to the person who wrote the rules.
“Fine,” I murmured, retreating into silence. “I was just trying to help,” and I was helping. I was helping him dig his own grave exactly 6 ft deep.
The shrill ring of the landline cut through the heavy silence like a fire alarm. We all jumped. Nobody used the landline in the chalet. It was a dusty relic sitting on an antique credenza in the hallway, primarily for emergencies.
Damon stared at it for a second, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and anticipation. He scrambled out of his chair, knocking it over in his haste. “It might be them,” he whispered horarssely, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. “It has to be them.”
He snatched the receiver up before the third ring. “Hello, this is Damon Wilson.” He stood up straighter instantly, adopting his professional lawyer voice, though his voice cracked slightly on the last syllable.
I watched from the living room as his expression shifted. The terror that had etched lines into his face began to smooth out, replaced by a look of confusion and then slowly blooming relief. “Yes, yes, we are currently in residence. 4 p.m. We can make that work. Of course, we look forward to it.”
He hung up the phone and turned to face us. A slow grin spread across his face, the arrogance returning to his eyes like a light switch had been flipped. “That was the executive assistant to the chairman of Titanium Ventures. They want to meet us face to face. Today at 4:00 in the presidential suite at the Ritz Carlton.”
Pamela let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for an hour. “I knew it,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I knew they would not just foreclose on a family like ours without a conversation. They realize the value of the Wilson name. They want to negotiate.”
Damon nodded, pacing the room with renewed energy. “Exactly. This is standard M&A protocol. If they wanted to crush us, they would have just sent the lawyers. A face-to-face meeting with the chairman means they are interested in the human capital. They know we have the expertise to run those hotels. They need us.”
Britney perked up immediately, reaching for her compact mirror to check her makeup. “The Ritz Carlton,” she mused. “That is a good sign. You do not invite people to the Ritz just to evict them. You invite them to sign deals. Oh my god. Do you think they want to put me on the board? I mean, I am the face of the brand.”
I sat in the corner listening to them weave a tapestry of delusion. It was fascinating and horrifying in equal measure. They were drowning men, convinced that the shark circling them was actually a dolphin coming to save them. They had no idea that the meeting was not a negotiation. It was a sentencing hearing. And the chairman they were so eager to impress was currently sitting 10 ft away wearing leggings and drinking tea.
“Get ready, everyone,” Pamela commanded, clapping her hands again. “I want us to look impeccable. Wear the Armani suits, Britney. Wear the pearls grandmother gave you. We need to show them that we are equals. We need to walk into that room like we own the place because after today, we just might own it again.”
I watched them scatter, running up the stairs to pin and polish themselves for their execution. They were so confident, so sure of their own importance. I took a sip of my tea. They were going to walk into the Ritz Carlton like kings and queens, but they were going to crawl out like beggars.
The atmosphere in the chalet shifted from panic to a frantic orchestrated chaos. Damon had turned the library into a war room. The printer was humming rhythmically, spitting out page after page of graphs and spreadsheets. I stood in the doorway watching him collate the documents into leatherbound binders. He was moving with the manic energy of a man who believed he could bend reality to his will.
I knew exactly what he was doing. I could see the file names on his laptop screen: adjusted IBA projections, asset evaluation models. He was cooking the books. He was preparing to walk into a meeting with a sophisticated institutional investor and present financial data that was at best optimistic and at worst criminal fraud.
He looked up and saw me standing there. His eyes narrowed, assessing me not as a person, but as a prop in his stage play. He reached behind his desk and grabbed a garment bag, tossing it at me. It landed at my feet with a soft thud.
“Put this dress on,” he commanded. “It is a black sheath dress. Conservative, boring, invisible. I want you to look professional, but I do not want you to draw focus.”
