--[3rd Person POV]--
"Excuse me, Sir, you have an incoming call."
With some effort, Preston managed to pull his eyes off the rather shapely behind of the pool girl who had repeatedly sent him knowing glances, no doubt looking for another generous tip by the end of the day, judging from how much she was swaying her hips, "If it's anyone from the country club board, Samson, tell them I'm not making another damn donation until they stop blocking my vote to increase the membership fees. It's been too damn crowded lately, and I fear some of the middle class may somehow slip through the vetting process."
"It's not the club, sir, I believe it's that cook who came over the other day," Samson responded in his usual monotone as he reached into his jacket and produced Preston's phone.
Taking the device with glee, Preston smiled from ear to ear, "I was wondering if he would have the balls to confront me again after what I did to him and his little peasant farm. That was an excellent idea by the way, Samson, really just poetic."
"Thank you, sir," Samson replied with a slight hint of a smile, which for the stoic man might as well have been a whole song and dance.
Picking up the call, Preston cleared his throat before speaking, "Mr. Young, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"You must feel real good about yourself right about now," Ramon grunted, which only made Preston's grin grow. "Well, I think you'll have to be a bit more specific when you're as rich as I am. Feeling good is almost a given at any moment."
"Rich indeed, enough to spend roughly fifteen thousand dollars on ten barrels worth of industrial road salt from Zoutman Road Services Incorporated?"
Preston's smile slipped from his face, and he went deathly still, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Huh, are you sure, because I have the sales record right here in my hand," Ramon replied with a savage grin.
"You're bluffing," Preston growled as he started to feel the walls close in around him, "There's no way you can have-"
"$15,673.92, does that number sound familiar?" Ramon interrupted, making Preston realize that the worst-case scenario had come true, "Or better yet, how about 8:58 PM two days ago when their call center picked up a call from the number 875-225-365, do any of those things sound familiar to you?"
Preston sat up in his lounge chair as he gripped his phone hard enough to turn his knuckles white, "Listen to me very carefully, you insignificant worm, you may think you're going to come out winning this game. But I can assure you that you have no idea who the hell you're messing with. Do you think a little something like this is enough to take me down or even stop me for a second?"
"No, but while I was at it, I also took the liberty to look into that little Scholarship fund you got going, and wouldn't you know it, just hours after the order was placed at Zoutman, your scholarship awarded 16,000 dollars to a supposed Huck Fin, which is honestly just a terrible name. Which is strange because it's the middle of the spring term and admissions haven't even opened up yet, and even then, there's not even a record of a Huck Fin being admitted on the school's registry. So that got me thinking, are there any other ghost children your scholarship has sponsored? And wouldn't you know it, there were 347 to be exact, totally up to nearly 25 million dollars over misallocated funds."
Preston was dead silent as he felt his heart seize in his chest and the ground give out from underneath him.
"Now this all could be some sort of clerical error," Ramon continued, gloating now, "But then I've taken a look at your tax records over the last few odd years and found a slew of luxurious purchases with price tags and purchase dates that are oddly in sync with your scholarship fund finding new sponsees, now isn't that just a funny coincidence. But I have to tell you, Preston…I don't believe in coincidences."
Ramons dropped an octave, going from overly cheerful and friendly to deathly serious in an instant, "Now what are we going to do about all of this?"
"Are you threatening me?" Preston growled out through clenched teeth.
"Yes, I am with blackmail so damning that it's enough to put you under the damn jail house, so that we understand both of our positions, we can negotiate…or you can tell me to go fuck off, and I'll take all of this straight to some fresh college graduate with a degree in journalism looking for their breakout story."
Preston's jaw clenched as Ramon twisted the knife he had buried in his gut, "I…don't think that will be necessary."
"Good, I knew we would come to an agreement."
"What the hell do you want, money, a new farm for your little grass-eating farm friend?" Preston muttered darkly, wanting nothing more than to reach through the phone and strangle Ramon with his bare hands.
"I'm going to overlook that little insult, but try some smart shit again and see just how easy it is for me to find the rest of your damn skeletons."
Preston ground his teeth together but said nothing, and Ramon took his silence for understanding. "Good, now for my first demand, I want to fuck your wife."
"You son of a bitch, absolutely not, no fucking way!" Preston shouted as he stood up with a snarl, "No one lays a hand on my wife, you hear me! She mine, mine!!"
"Fine," Ramon said with a shrug, "Instead of your wife, I'll just take ten million dollars instead."
Preston stopped dead in tracks, "Are you insane? That's too much!"
"Those are your options: tell your wife that you fucked up and now she's got to cover your ass with hers, or pay me the fifteen million. What's it going to be?"
For a long moment, Preston didn't talk before he slowly ground out the words through his teeth, "I'll talk to my wife, and then get back to you."
"You have a day; otherwise, everything gets released." Ramon threatened before he hung up the phone.
"FUCK!!" Preston screamed and threw his phone on the floor, shattering it into a thousand pieces and sending the pool girl running off as quickly as she could, "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!"
"Sir are you-"
"FUCK!!" Preston shouted with the very last breath in his lungs before he stopped and desperately sucked in a breath, "G-get m-my wife here now, I don't care whatever the hell she's doing, I needed her here ten minutes ago!"
Samson only spared Preston a single glance from behind his shades before turning around and leaving to fulfill the task given to him.
Left alone by the pool, Preston paced back and forth, his robe nearly coming undone as he spiralled and tried to think of a way out of the nightmare, "How the fuck did this happen? How did a fucking chef find out about everything?"
Preston shook his head as he reached up and massaged his chin in thought, "No, no, he can't just be a chef, he had to be a decoy, a proxy, or something. S-someone else is behind the scenes pulling the strings. But everyone is always so jealous of my success, so it could be any of those fucking leeches looking to take me out and humiliate me."
Storming back into the house, Preston made his way to the study, where he slammed the door behind him after entering and locked it, making sure no one would interrupt him. Then he walked over to his desk, opened a drawer, revealing a small flip phone that he powered on.
A second later, he was scrolling through the contacts until he found the one he was looking for. Holding it up to his ear, Preston waited for the call to go through, "Hey, it's me, I need you to look into someone."