The fluorescent lights of the CVS pharmacy hummed with a sickly buzz that William Croft hadn’t noticed in years. He stood at the counter, a bottle of pediatric amoxicillin for Leo’s ear infection on the counter.
“That will be twenty-two dollars,” the pharmacist said, popping her gum.
William tapped his black Centurion card against the reader. It beeped–a harsh, dissonant tone. *DECLINED.*
“Try it again,” William said, his voice tight. “It’s the chip.”
She tried again. *DECLINED. PLEASE CONTACT ISSUER.*
William stared at the screen. He was the CEO of a multi-billion dollar conglomerate, reinstated to the throne only months ago. The idea that he couldn’t buy a twenty-dollar antibiotic was absurd. Then he remembered the silver laptop sitting on the mahogany conference table back at the tower.
*Sebastian Cross.*
“Mr. Croft?” the pharmacist asked, her voice dropping to a whisper as she recognized him. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” William lied, feeling the heat rise in his neck. He patted his pockets, finding a crumpled fifty-dollar bill he had tucked away during his time in the Queens apartment. He handed it over, humiliated.
Sebastian Cross hadn’t just audited the company; he had executed a “preliminary hold” on the family’s personal liquidity. The message was clear: until the books balanced, the Crofts were grounded.