I didn’t break my stride. I pushed through the heavy double doors, descended into the subterranean gloom of the parking garage, and climbed into my twelve-year-old Subaru Outback. The engine hummed to life, a steady, unassuming sound. I pulled out my phone and dialed three numbers.
The first was to Garrett Morrison, my family’s attorney for nearly a quarter of a century. A former federal prosecutor and current apex predator at the firm of Morrison & Hale.
“Garrett. It’s Tara Ashford,” I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “Execute the extraction protocol for Vance Chen. Everything. Immediately.”
“Understood,” Garrett replied, his tone shifting into absolute professionalism.
“The super PAC funding—terminate it tonight before the stroke of midnight. The campaign headquarters lease on 14th Street… his name is on the door, but my trust owns the brick and mortar. Initiate eviction proceedings. Serve him the absolute legal minimum notice. The staff salaries paid through the campaign fund, backed by the Foundation? Cut the wire transfers. And the media consultants—void their contracts. Cite the moral character clause. I’ll forward the documentation now.”
“Consider it done,” he said. I ended the call.
The second dial was to my cousin, Dr. Naomi Ashford, Chief of Staff at Georgetown University Hospital. She had spent the better part of two years relentlessly lobbying me to join their board of directors.
“Naomi,” I said when she picked up. “I’m ready to accept that board seat. But there’s a vital piece of context you need regarding one of your prominent donors first.”
The final call was the heaviest. I dialed my grandfather, Harrison Ashford III, the former Secretary of Commerce and the reigning patriarch of Ashford Holdings. This was a man who still had former presidents on speed dial.
“Tara, my dear,” his voice crackled through the speakers, rich and warm like aged bourbon. “How’s the engagement gala?”
