The courtroom hummed with the arrogant laughter of the wealthy. Alexander Hawthorne sat with his high-priced lawyers, a smug grin plastered on his face as he prepared to leave his wife, Sarah, with absolutely nothing. He thought she was just a simple stay-at-home mother from a no-name town, utterly alone in the city.
He thought winning would be easy. He was wrong. The moment the courtroom doors swung open and a fleet of black SUVs pulled up outside, everything changed.
Alexander wasn’t just divorcing a lonely housewife. He was declaring war on a dynasty he never knew existed. And today, they had come to collect.
The divorce proceedings of Hawthorne v. Hawthorne were taking place in the Superior Court of Manhattan, a building that smelled of old mahogany and expensive desperation. To Alexander Hawthorne, the smell was sweet. It smelled like victory.
Alexander adjusted the cuffs of his bespoke Italian suit, glancing at the reflection of his Patek Philippe watch. He was a handsome man, in the way sharks are handsome: sleek, predatory, and devoid of warmth. At thirty-eight, he was the CEO of Hawthorne Tech, a company he had built—admittedly, with the emotional support of his wife, Sarah.
But he conveniently forgot that part. Today, he wasn’t thinking about the late nights she stayed up helping him format business plans or the way she had nursed him through his stress-induced ulcers. He was thinking about Jessica, his twenty-four-year-old PR director, currently waiting for him in a hotel suite at the Ritz.
And he was thinking about how much he enjoyed crushing people.
“Look at her,” Alexander whispered to his lead attorney, Arthur Pendergast. Pendergast was a man who eviscerated the opposition. “She looks like she’s about to faint. This will be over before lunch.”
Arthur Pendergast chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “Standard procedure, Alex. We crush her spirit. She signs the NDA and the waiver for alimony.”
“And she goes back to whatever cornfield you plucked her from,” Alexander sneered. “She has a public defender, for God’s sake. A public defender against me.”
Across the aisle, Sarah Hawthorne sat alone. She wore a simple grey dress that had seen better days. Her brown hair was pulled back in a severe, practical bun.
She looked tired. Her hands were folded on the empty table in front of her. Next to her sat a young, flustered-looking man named Timothy O’Malley.
He was a court-appointed lawyer who looked like he had graduated law school about fifteen minutes ago. He was shuffling papers nervously, dropping a pen, picking it up, and dropping it again.
“Mrs. Hawthorne,” Timothy whispered, his voice cracking. “I really think we should have taken the initial settlement. Five thousand dollars is better than nothing. Pendergast is a monster.”
“He’s going to argue that you contributed nothing to the marriage, and that you were, well, unfaithful,” Timothy continued anxiously.
Sarah didn’t look at him. She kept her eyes fixed on the judge’s bench. “I wasn’t unfaithful, Timothy. You know that. Alexander knows that.”
“It doesn’t matter what the truth is,” Timothy hissed, panic rising in his chest. “It matters what they can prove or what they can fabricate. They have photos, Sarah.”
“Doctored, maybe, but photos,” he added. “They have witness statements from staff you’ve never met. They are going to destroy you.”
“Let them try,” Sarah said softly.
Timothy stared at her. For a woman about to be thrown into the street without a penny to her name, she was bizarrely calm. It wasn’t the calm of peace. It was the calm of a hurricane’s eye.
Alexander leaned back, stretching his legs. He caught Sarah’s eye and smirked. He mouthed the word goodbye.
She didn’t blink. She just watched him, her eyes dark and unreadable.
Judge Harold C. Bentley entered the room, his black robes billowing. The bailiff called the order. Judge Bentley was a man who had seen it all, and he looked particularly bored today. Another rich husband dumping his starter wife; it was a Tuesday tradition in New York.
“We are here for the matter of Hawthorne versus Hawthorne,” Judge Bentley droned, adjusting his glasses. “Mr. Pendergast, you may begin your opening statement.”
Pendergast stood up, buttoning his jacket. He didn’t walk; he prowled. He approached the jury box, though there was no jury for this hearing, only the judge. He performed for the audience in the gallery.
“Your Honor,” Pendergast began, his voice booming with theatrical outrage. “We are here today to dissolve a marriage that was built on deception. My client, Mr. Alexander Hawthorne, is a titan of industry, a man of integrity, a man who pulled himself up by his bootstraps to build an empire.”
“And who did he drag up with him? This woman.” He pointed a finger at Sarah like a loaded gun. “Sarah Hawthorne, a woman from a small, insignificant town in rural Wyoming. A woman with no education, no background, and no assets.”
“My client, out of the goodness of his heart, married her,” Pendergast continued. “He gave her a life of luxury: penthouses, cars, designer clothes. And how did she repay him?”
Pendergast paused for effect. The courtroom was silent.
“She repaid him with laziness, with incompetence, and ultimately with infidelity,” he declared. A gasp rippled through the few spectators—mostly reporters Alexander had tipped off to humiliate Sarah publicly.
“We have evidence, Your Honor,” Pendergast continued, waving a thick file. “Affidavits from hotel staff, receipts. While my client was working eighteen-hour days to put food on the table, Mrs. Hawthorne was… entertaining guests.”
Alexander put on a mask of pained sorrow, looking down at his hands. It was a performance worthy of an Oscar.
“We are asking for a full annulment,” Pendergast declared. “We are asking that Mrs. Hawthorne be denied all alimony. We are asking that she be removed from the marital residence immediately. And furthermore, we are suing for defamation of character, citing the emotional distress she has caused my client.”
Timothy, the young lawyer, looked like he was about to vomit. He stood up, his knees shaking.
“Objection, Your Honor. This is… this is preposterous. Sarah—Mrs. Hawthorne has been a loyal wife for ten years.”
“Sit down, Mr. O’Malley,” Judge Bentley sighed. “You will have your turn.”
Pendergast smirked at Timothy. “The defense has nothing, Your Honor, because the defendant is nothing. She has no family to vouch for her, no character witnesses, no resources. She is a grifter who got caught.”
Alexander leaned over to Pendergast as he sat down. “Brilliant, Arthur. Truly brilliant. Did you see her face? She’s paralyzed.”
“She’s done,” Pendergast whispered back. “We’ll have the papers signed by noon. Then we go to lunch at Le Bernardin.”
Sarah sat perfectly still. She reached into her cheap purse and pulled out a small vibrating pager, the kind used in hospitals or old restaurants. It buzzed once—a harsh, mechanical sound.
She looked at the pager, then at the clock on the wall. Ten a.m. exactly.
“Sarah,” Timothy whispered. “What is that?”
Sarah finally turned to her terrified lawyer. A small, sad smile touched her lips. “I told Alexander that I came from a small town in Wyoming. That was true. But I never told him who ran the town.”
Timothy blinked. “What?”
“I told him I was estranged from my family because they were difficult,” Sarah continued, her voice gaining a sudden steely strength. “I didn’t tell him I left because I wanted to see if anyone could love me for me, and not for my last name.”
“Sarah, what are you talking about?”
“He failed the test, Timothy.”
Sarah stood up. She didn’t ask for permission. She simply stood, her posture changing instantly.
The slump vanished. Her shoulders squared. She looked taller, sharper, dangerous.
“Your Honor,” Sarah said, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the courtroom. It wasn’t the voice of a beaten housewife. It was the voice of someone used to giving orders that were obeyed instantly.
Judge Bentley looked over his glasses, annoyed. “Mrs. Hawthorne, your counsel will speak for—”
“My counsel has done an admirable job, given the lies he was fed by the opposition,” Sarah interrupted calmly. “But my actual legal team has just arrived. I request a brief recess to allow them to enter the building.”
Alexander laughed out loud. “Legal team? What legal team? The cashier from the grocery store?”
Pendergast rolled his eyes. “Your Honor, this is a delay tactic. She has no resources.”
“The recess is denied,” Judge Bentley said, banging his gavel. “Sit down, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Boom. The sound wasn’t thunder. It was the heavy double doors at the back of the courtroom being thrown open with enough force to rattle the windows.
Every head in the room turned. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The air grew heavy, charged with a sudden overwhelming pressure.
Standing in the doorway were six men. They were not court security. They were not local police.
They were dressed in black tactical suits, impeccable and terrifying, with earpieces coiling down their necks. They moved with a synchronized fluidity that spoke of elite military training. They stepped aside, forming a corridor.
Alexander frowned, his laughter dying in his throat. “Who the hell are these people?”
Through the corridor of guards walked a man and a woman. The man was older, perhaps in his sixties, but he possessed a vitality that made him seem ageless. He wore a charcoal suit that cost more than Alexander’s car.
He had silver hair, cold blue eyes, and he carried a silver-tipped cane—not because he needed it, but because it looked like a weapon. The woman beside him was younger, stunningly beautiful, with sharp features that mirrored Sarah’s.
She wore a white power suit that looked like armor. She carried a leather briefcase stamped with a gold crest, a crest of a lion holding a sword.
Behind them came a phalanx of lawyers. Not the frantic, sweaty lawyers of the Manhattan lower courts. These were the sharks that ate other sharks. There were twelve of them marching in lockstep, carrying stacks of files.
“What is the meaning of this?” Judge Bentley demanded, though his voice wavered slightly. “You cannot just barge into my courtroom.”
The silver-haired man stopped in the center of the aisle. He looked at the judge, then at Alexander. He didn’t look at Alexander like a person. He looked at him like a stain on the carpet.
“My apologies, Your Honor,” the man said. His voice was deep, smooth, and commanded absolute silence. “We were delayed by your city’s atrocious traffic. I am William Vanderquilt.”
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the kind of silence that happens when a bomb drops but hasn’t detonated yet. Alexander’s face went pale.
He knew that name. Everyone in business knew that name. Vanderquilt.
The Vanderquilts weren’t just rich. They were the bedrock of the American economy. They owned steel. They owned shipping. They owned media. And rumor had it they owned half the Senate.
They were old money—money that had existed before the country had borders.
“William… Vanderquilt?” Arthur Pendergast stuttered, standing up. “The… The industrialist?”
“And I,” the woman in the white suit said, stepping forward, “am Victoria Vanderquilt Sterling. Senior Partner at Sterling Holt and Associates.”
Pendergast choked. Sterling Holt and Associates was the most feared law firm in the western hemisphere. They handled international disputes, treaties, and the divorces of royalty. They didn’t come to Superior Court for a tech CEO.
“We are here representing the defendant,” William Vanderquilt said, turning his gaze to Sarah. His cold eyes softened instantly. “Hello, sweetheart.”
Sarah stepped out from behind her table. She walked past a stunned Timothy O’Malley and embraced the older man. “Hi, Dad.”
“Dad?” Alexander shrieked. He stood up so fast his chair toppled over. “That’s impossible. She’s Sarah Jones. From Wyoming.”
William Vanderquilt released his daughter and turned slowly to face Alexander. The look of affection vanished, replaced by a glacial hatred.
“She is Sarah Vanderquilt,” William corrected, his voice dropping an octave. “She used her mother’s maiden name, Jones, because she wanted a simple life. She wanted to find a man who loved her, not her inheritance.”
William took a step toward Alexander. The bodyguards tensed, ready to intercept, but William just leaned on his cane.
“She thought she found that man in you,” William continued. “We gave her ten years, Mr. Hawthorne. Ten years to play house. We stayed away, as she asked.”
“We let her live in your modest apartments. We let her drive your pedestrian cars. But then you decided to hurt her.”
Victoria, Sarah’s sister, slammed her briefcase onto the defense table. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
“You didn’t just file for divorce, Alexander,” Victoria said, opening the case. “You tried to humiliate her. You fabricated evidence. You tried to leave a Vanderquilt penniless.”
She pulled out a document and held it up. “This is a motion to dismiss your fraudulent claims,” Victoria announced. “And this,” she pulled out a second, thicker document, “is a countersuit.”
“Countersuit?” Pendergast managed to squeak. “On what grounds?”
“Fraud,” Victoria listed, ticking off her fingers. “Embezzlement, corporate espionage, adultery, and, oh yes, conspiracy to defraud a federal judge.”
Alexander felt the room spinning. “You’re bluffing. Sarah is a nobody. She cooked my dinner. She did my laundry.”
“So? She did your laundry,” William said, his voice dripping with disgust. “Because she loved you, not because she had to. You treated a queen like a servant, and you were too stupid to notice the difference.”
Judge Bentley, realizing the gravity of the situation, cleared his throat. “Mr. Vanderquilt, while I respect your… entrance, you cannot simply take over proceedings. Ms. Vanderquilt Sterling, you must file an appearance.”
“Already filed electronically, Your Honor, three minutes ago,” Victoria said smoothly. “Along with a request to transfer this case to the High Court, due to the complexities of the assets involved.”
“Assets,” Alexander scoffed, trying to regain his composure. “I’m the one with the assets. She has nothing.”
Sarah spoke then. Her voice was calm, but it carried to every corner of the room. “Alexander,” she said, “who do you think funded your seed round for Hawthorne Tech?”
Alexander blinked. “Angel Investors. A consortium called V Group Holdings.”
“V Group,” Sarah repeated. “V, as in Vanderquilt.”
Alexander froze.
“My trust fund,” Sarah said simply. “I authorized the investment ten years ago. I own 49% of your company through shell corporations. My family owns another 2%.”
She smiled a cold, sharp smile that matched her father’s. “That means we own 51%. I’m not just your wife, Alexander. I’m your boss.”
The color drained from Alexander’s face so completely he looked like a wax figure. Pendergast looked like he was having a heart attack.
“We are freezing all assets of Hawthorne Tech effective immediately,” Victoria announced, handing a paper to the bailiff. “We are also serving you with an eviction notice for the penthouse. The building is owned by Vanderquilt Real Estate. You have 24 hours to vacate.”
“You can’t do this!” Alexander screamed, pointing a trembling finger at Sarah. “I’m the CEO. I built that company with my money!”
“Sarah’s money,” Sarah said. “And my patience, both of which have run out.”
William Vanderquilt tapped his cane on the floor. “Your Honor, I suggest a recess. My son-in-law looks like he needs to call his mistress and tell her he can’t pay for the hotel room anymore.”
The courtroom erupted into chaos. Reporters were frantically typing on their phones. Timothy O’Malley was staring at Sarah with his mouth hanging open.
Judge Bentley banged his gavel. “Order! Order! We will take a one-hour recess.”
As the judge exited, Alexander slumped into his chair. He looked up at Sarah, searching for the woman who used to make him coffee and rub his back. She was gone. In her place was a stranger backed by an army.
Sarah leaned across the aisle. “You wanted a war, Alexander,” she whispered. “The Vanderquilts don’t lose wars. We end them.”
She turned and walked out, flanked by her father, her sister, and the wall of bodyguards. Alexander was left alone in the noise, the smell of his expensive cologne now sour with the scent of fear.
The hour-long recess was barely ten minutes old, and Alexander Hawthorne was already breaking the speed limit in his Porsche 911, weaving through Manhattan traffic with the desperation of a cornered animal. His hands shook on the steering wheel.
“It’s a bluff,” he told himself over and over. “It has to be a bluff. Nobody hides being a billionaire for ten years. Nobody.”
He fumbled for his phone, dialing Leonard Banks. He had to be careful with names. His mind was scrambling. Leonard Banks was his Chief Financial Officer, the man who knew where all the bodies were buried.
“Leonard!” Alexander screamed the moment the line connected. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the office, Alex.” Leonard’s voice sounded strange, thin, strained.
“Listen, you shouldn’t come here…”
“I’m the CEO, I go where I please! Listen to me, I need you to transfer the offshore accounts, the Caymans, the Zurich hold. Move it all to the crypto wallets we discussed. Now!”
There was a long silence on the other end.
“Leonard, did you hear me?”
“I can’t do that, Alex.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because,” Leonard whispered, “they are already here.” The line went dead.
Alexander slammed the phone onto the passenger seat. He floored the accelerator, running a red light. He needed to get to the server room.
If he could just delete the files, the evidence of the embezzlement he’d been committing for three years to fund his lavish lifestyle and Jessica’s expensive tastes, he might survive this. He could claim the Vanderquilts were staging a hostile takeover based on lies.
He screeched into the underground parking garage of Hawthorne Tech. He leaped out of the car, sprinting toward the private elevator that led directly to the 40th floor. He jammed his thumb against the biometric scanner.
Beep, beep, beep. Access denied.
Alexander stared at the small red light. He wiped his thumb on his jacket and tried again. Access denied. “User ID Invalid,” the screen read.
“Damn it!” He kicked the steel doors.
“Mr. Hawthorne.”
Alexander spun around. Two security guards—men he had hired, men whose paychecks he signed—were standing there. But they weren’t smiling. They were standing with their arms crossed, looking at him with a mix of pity and professional detachment.
“Open this elevator,” Alexander barked. “The system is glitching.”
“It’s not a glitch, sir,” the taller guard said. “We’ve been ordered to escort you to the boardroom. Visitor pass only.”
“Visitor?” Alexander’s veins bulged in his neck. “I own this building!”
“This way, sir.”
They flanked him effectively, marching him to the service elevator. The humiliation burned hotter than fire. Alexander Hawthorne, dragged through the back entrance of his own empire.
When the elevator doors opened on the 40th floor, the office was deathly quiet. Usually, it was buzzing with analysts and developers. Now everyone was at their desks, heads down, pretending to work.
But Alexander could feel their eyes on him. They knew. The gossip mill moved faster than light.
The double glass doors of the boardroom were frosted, but he could see shadows moving inside. He pushed past the guards and threw the doors open. The scene before him stopped him cold.
The long mahogany table was full. The entire board of directors was present. They were men and women Alexander had bullied, charmed, and manipulated for years. Usually, they looked at him with deference. Today, they wouldn’t meet his eyes.
At the head of the table, in his seat, sat Sarah.
She wasn’t wearing the grey dress from the courtroom anymore. In the hour since they had left, she had changed. She wore a tailored navy blazer, sharp and authoritative, her hair loose and cascading over her shoulders.
She looked comfortable in the leather chair. She looked like she belonged there.
To her right sat William Vanderquilt, looking bored as he reviewed a stack of spreadsheets. To her left was Victoria, tapping away on a tablet. Standing in the corner, looking pale and sweaty, was Leonard Banks, the CFO.
“You’re in my chair,” Alexander snarled, striding forward.
“I’m in the Chairman’s chair,” Sarah corrected calmly. She didn’t stand up. She didn’t flinch. “And since I represent the majority shareholder interest as of 45 minutes ago, this is my seat.”
“You can’t just take over!” Alexander slammed his hands on the table. “I have a contract. I have executive protection.”
“Article 15, Section C of your employment agreement,” Victoria spoke up without looking up from her tablet. “The CEO may be removed immediately and without severance in the event of gross misconduct or criminal negligence.”
“I haven’t done anything criminal,” Alexander lied, his eyes darting to Leonard.
Sarah picked up a file from the table and slid it across the mahogany surface. It stopped perfectly at the edge, right in front of Alexander.
“Leonard told us everything, Alex,” Sarah said softly. “The renovation costs for the penthouse that were billed as server upgrades, the company jet trips to Mykonos listed as client development, the jewelry receipts for Jessica labeled as office supplies.”
Alexander looked at Leonard. “You traitor.”
“I have a family, Alex,” Leonard stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Mr. Vanderquilt… his auditors found the discrepancies in 10 minutes. They offered me immunity if I cooperated. I’m sorry.”
Alexander felt the floor tilting. “So what? You fire me. I still have my shares. I have 30% of this company.”
William Vanderquilt finally looked up. He took off his reading glasses and folded them slowly.
“Actually, you don’t,” William said. His voice was gravel and thunder. “You took out a loan against your equity three years ago to pay off your gambling debts in Vegas. Remember that? You used your shares as collateral.”
Alexander froze. He had hoped that was buried.
“The loan was held by a private equity firm called Centurion Capital,” William continued.
“Guess who owns Centurion?”
Alexander didn’t answer. He couldn’t breathe.
“I do,” William smiled. “And since you missed your last two margin calls, I foreclosed on the collateral this morning. Your shares are mine.”
Alexander stumbled back, gripping the back of a chair for support. “This… This is a setup. You planned this. You trapped me.”
“I didn’t trap you, Alexander,” Sarah said, standing up. She walked around the table until she was standing inches from him. Her eyes were clear, devoid of the fear he used to see in them.
“I gave you a safety net. I covered for you. I used my dividends to plug the holes you dug in the company finances because I wanted you to succeed. I wanted to believe you were just stressed, not corrupt.”
She leaned in close. “But then you looked at me across the breakfast table last week and told me I was dead weight. You told me I was holding you back.”
Sarah’s voice trembled slightly, not with sadness, but with suppressed rage. “You wanted to fly, Alex? Fine. Fly. But I’m taking back the wings I bought you.”
Sarah turned to the board. “I call for a vote to remove Alexander Hawthorne as CEO, effective immediately, pending a criminal investigation into embezzlement.”
“Seconded,” said a board member, whom Alexander considered a friend.
“All in favor?”
Every hand in the room went up. Even Leonard’s.
“Motion carried,” Sarah said. She looked at the security guards. “Please escort Mr. Hawthorne off the premises. He is not to remove any items from his office. His personal effects will be boxed and shipped to, well, wherever he ends up living.”
“Sarah, wait,” Alexander pleaded, his arrogance finally shattering into panic. He reached for her arm.
The guard stepped in, grabbing Alexander’s wrist in a vise grip. “Don’t touch her, sir.”
“Sarah, please! We can talk about this. I was stressed. I made mistakes. I love you!”
Sarah looked at him. For a second, Alexander saw a flash of the woman who had loved him for ten years. But then he saw the steel door of the Vanderquilt vault slam shut in her eyes.
“You don’t love me, Alex,” she said. “You loved the idea that you were better than me. Goodbye.”
She turned her back on him. “Get him out of here,” William Vanderquilt ordered.
As Alexander was dragged out of the boardroom, screaming obscenities, Sarah didn’t look back. She sat down in the CEO’s chair, took a deep breath, and looked at the board.
“Now,” she said, “let’s get to work on cleaning up this mess.”
The sidewalk outside Hawthorne Tech was cold. It was a brisk New York afternoon, but to Alexander, it felt like the Arctic. He stood there: sans coat, sans briefcase, sans dignity.
The security guards had literally tossed him out the revolving doors. Passers-by were staring. Some were pointing. Alexander realized with a jolt of horror that someone was filming him with a phone.
He needed to get away. He needed a drink. He needed a plan.
He patted his pockets. He still had his phone and his wallet. That was something. He hailed a cab—the Alexander Hawthorne, taking a yellow cab like a common tourist.
“The Ritz-Carlton,” he snapped at the driver.
He dialed Jessica. She was his lifeline now. She was smart. She was connected. And she, unlike Sarah, understood the world of high stakes. They could flee the country. He had hidden some cash, surely.
“Alex,” Jessica answered on the first ring. “Where are you? I’ve been waiting for two hours. The room service champagne is warm.”
“Forget the champagne,” Alexander barked, his voice shaking. “Pack your bags. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving? What are you talking about? Did you win?”
“It’s complicated. Just pack. I’m five minutes away.”
He hung up. He checked his bank app on his phone. He needed to transfer whatever cash he had in his checking account to a prepaid card before the freeze hit.
He logged in. Balance: $0.00.
He blinked. He refreshed the page.
Balance: -$4,250.00. Overdraft.
“What?!” he screamed, startling the cab driver. “That’s impossible. There was two hundred thousand in there this morning!”
He tapped on the transaction history. One massive transfer labeled: COURT ORDERED ASSET FREEZE. SUPERIOR COURT DOCKET #49221.
“No, no, no…”
The cab pulled up to the Ritz.
“That’ll be twenty-two fifty,” the driver said.
Alexander handed over his black American Express card. The driver swiped it on his mobile terminal.
“Declined.”
“Try it again,” Alexander snapped. “It’s a black card. It has no limit.”
“It’s declined, buddy. Try another one.”
Alexander tried his Visa. Declined. His MasterCard. Declined.
The driver turned around, his eyes narrowing. “You got cash?”
Alexander checked his wallet. He had a single twenty-dollar bill. He threw it at the driver. “Keep the change.”
He scrambled out of the cab and ran into the lobby. The opulence of the Ritz, usually comforting, now felt mocking. He sprinted to the elevators and went up to the suite.
He burst into the room. Jessica was lounging on the sofa, scrolling through her phone. She looked up, annoyed, but her expression changed when she saw him. He was disheveled, sweating, his tie crooked.
“My God, Alex,” she said. “You look like a wreck. What happened?”
“They froze the accounts,” Alexander gasped, pacing the room. “They knew everything. Sarah… she’s not who we thought she was.”
Jessica frowned. “What do you mean? She’s the peasant from Wyoming.”
“She’s a Vanderquilt.”
Jessica dropped her phone. It landed on the carpet with a soft thud. “A Vanderquilt? Like… the Vanderquilts?”
“Yes, her father is William Vanderquilt. They ambushed me. They took the company. They took the house. They took everything.”
He grabbed Jessica’s shoulders. “But we can fix this. You have savings, right? We can go to Mexico. I can rebuild. I have contacts.”
Jessica stared at him. Slowly, she reached up and removed his hands from her shoulders. She stood up and took a step back.
“You lost the company?” she asked, her voice dangerously calm.
“They stole it. But I’ll get it back. I just need… I need you to float us for a few weeks.”
Jessica laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. It was a cold, cruel sound that reminded him of Arthur Pendergast.
“‘Float us’?” she repeated. “Alex, do you know why I’m with you?”
“Because we’re soulmates,” Alexander said, though it sounded hollow even to him. “Because we understand each other.”
“I’m with you because you bought me a Cartier bracelet last Tuesday,” Jessica said flatly. “I’m with you because you promised to make me VP of Marketing. I’m with you because you are a winner.”
She looked him up and down, curling her lip in disgust. “But right now? You look like a loser. A broke loser.”
“Jessica, don’t—”
“Jessica me? You’re telling me you’re up against the Vanderquilts. You’re dead meat, Alex. They will crush you into dust. And I am not getting dust on my Gucci heels.”
She walked over to the bed, grabbed her purse, and slung it over her shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Alexander asked, his voice cracking.
“Out. I have a date with that hedge fund guy, Michael. He’s been texting me for weeks. I didn’t answer because you were the bigger fish.” She shrugged. “Now you’re just bait.”
“You can’t leave me. I left my wife for you. And she turned out to be a billionaire.”
Jessica scoffed, opening the door. “Looks like you’re the idiot, Alex. Don’t call me.”
She slammed the door. Alexander stood in the silence of the hotel suite. He was alone. Truly alone.
A knock at the door made him jump. Hope flared in his chest. Jessica came back.
He rushed to open it. It wasn’t Jessica. It was Victoria Vanderquilt Sterling. She was flanked by two police officers.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” Victoria said, her voice crisp and professional. She held out a manila envelope.
“What is this?” Alexander whispered.
“I tried to catch you at the office, but you left in such a hurry,” Victoria said. “This is a subpoena and a warrant.”
“Warrant?”
“Grand larceny, fraud, embezzlement,” Victoria listed calmly. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “My father doesn’t like it when people steal from his family. We did a full forensic audit over lunch. It seems you stole about five million dollars from the company accounts over the last four years.”
The police officers stepped forward. “Alexander Hawthorne, you are under arrest.”
“No,” Alexander whimpered as the handcuffs clicked around his wrists. “This can’t be real.”
“Oh, it’s very real,” Victoria said, watching as the officers turned him around. “And Alex? The hotel manager asked me to tell you that your credit card was declined for the room. They’ll be holding your luggage until payment is rendered.”
“I have nothing!” Alexander screamed as he was led down the hallway past stunned hotel guests. “I have nothing!”
Victoria watched him go, then pulled out her phone. She dialed a number.
“Hey, Dad,” she said. “It’s done. He’s in custody. Tell Sarah she can go home. The pest control is finished.”
Rikers Island was a far cry from the penthouse overlooking Central Park. The air smelled of industrial cleaner and unwashed bodies. For Alexander Hawthorne, the 48 hours he spent in holding were a lifetime.
When he finally made bail—posted by a shady associate from his gambling days who demanded a 40% interest rate—Alexander emerged into the sunlight looking like a ghost. His bespoke suit was wrinkled. His stubble was graying, and his eyes were bloodshot.
