Chapter 3 - The Phone Call
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Elias Monroe, the chief operating officer of Hartwell Precision Group, answered before the second ring.
“Mrs. Hartwell?” Elias said, his voice professional and alert.
“Cancel every single open contract with Ashford Aeronautics,” I instructed, staring at the mansion in the rearview mirror. “Freeze all their pending shipments, call in every outstanding balance immediately, and revoke all their extended credit terms.”
There was a heavy silence on the other end of the line. Elias had worked closely with me for nineteen years, long enough to recognize the tone in my voice. He knew when I was asking for advice, and he knew when I had already made a non-negotiable decision.
“Vivian,” Elias began carefully, “Ashford receives nearly seventy-two percent of its annual revenue directly from our supply agreements. If we suspend those contracts today without warning, they may not be able to make payroll next month. It will cripple them.”
I stared at the mansion sitting at the top of the hill. Behind those grand windows, Grant Ashford believed my daughter was weak simply because she had been raised by a mechanic’s widow. He firmly believed my workshop was worthless. He believed I should be eternally grateful for whatever meager scraps his wealthy family offered me.
“Then they should have treated their lifeline with a hell of a lot more respect,” I said, my voice like ice. “Do it, Elias. Today.”
I hung up the phone and put the car in drive.
The Ashfords genuinely believed I owned a struggling, dirty repair shop on the outskirts of Atlanta. That assumption was not entirely false. Hartwell Motor and Machine did exist, and I still spent several early mornings a week there. The building had faded brick walls, a corrugated metal roof, and a hand-painted sign my late husband, Daniel, had proudly hung above the entrance thirty-four years earlier.
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I still changed oil when we were short-staffed. I rebuilt old engines because the tactile work steadied my hands and calmed my mind. I wore inexpensive cardigans, packed my lunch in the exact same metal box I had carried since my twenties, and drove a car Grant Ashford would not have allowed his valet to park anywhere near his front entrance.
What the Ashfords did not know, what Grant had never bothered to look closely enough to discover, was that the workshop was also where Daniel and I had designed the first heat-resistant valve assembly that completely transformed our lives.
