The following morning, the crunch of heavy tires on gravel shattered the estate’s quiet. William and Malcolm stood on the front portico, coffee mugs in hand, watching a procession of flatbed trucks rumble up the driveway.
Sebastian Cross stood by his black sedan, checking a clipboard. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he called out cheerfully. “I’m afraid the audit has flagged your luxury assets as ‘unnecessary expenditures’ during a liquidity crisis.”
Two men began loading the vintage Rolls-Royce Phantom onto a truck. Another team carried out a crate containing a Vermeer painting from the foyer.
“You can’t do this,” William stepped forward, his face flushing with anger. “That car belonged to my grandfather.”
“And now it belongs to the creditors,” Cross replied, not looking up. “You have a five-billion-dollar hole in your ledger, William. The toys go first.”
Malcolm placed a restraining hand on his brother’s chest. They watched in silence as the symbols of their status were stripped away, leaving the driveway empty and the brothers feeling smaller than they had in years. The “King” was paralyzed upstairs, and his kingdom was being dismantled brick by brick.