Chapter 6
Three weeks later, the autumn wind whipped violently off Lake Michigan, rattling the reinforced glass of my new, completely private penthouse office on the seventy-second floor of the city center.
The fallout from Fiona’s infamous sixtieth birthday jubilee had shattered Chicago’s elite social circles like cheap glass. The video footage of Julian getting dragged out in handcuffs by the police had gone viral within four hours, racking up over forty million views across every major social media platform under the trending hashtag #TheSixtyDishRevenge.
Apex Capital conducted an immediate internal audit following the leak of Julian’s financial records, uncovering three years of systematic embezzlement and fraudulent client expense claims. Julian was not only facing up to ten years in federal prison for white-collar fraud, but his corporate license was permanently revoked, blacklisting him from the finance industry for life.
Fiona, stripped of her stolen wealth, her luxury vehicles, and her monthly allowance, was forced to sell off every single piece of fake designer jewelry and designer clothing just to pay for a cheap, mold-infested studio apartment on the far south side of the city. Her former high-society friends completely severed all ties, pretending they had never even heard her name when reporters shoved microphones in their faces.
As for the luxury condo on Lake Shore Drive?
The civil court judge ruled entirely in my favor during the emergency asset-seizure hearings. Because the property had been purchased entirely using my pre-marital inheritance and my personal tech-consulting salary, the title was officially awarded back to me free and clear of any encumbrances. Within forty-eight hours, I had hired a heavy-duty industrial cleaning crew to bleach every square inch of the place, scrubbing away every last toxic memory of the five years I spent playing the obedient, invisible servant.
I sat back in my ergonomic leather chair, sipping a warm cup of herbal tea while reviewing the final corporate acquisition documents for my newly expanded tech firm.
My phone buzzed softly on the sleek mahogany desk.
It was a text message from an unknown burner number, written in a frantic, unhinged scrawl:
Sloan... please. Have mercy. I’m freezing in this awful little apartment, my bank accounts are completely locked, and mother hasn’t stopped crying for a week. We need help. Just a little money for groceries. Please... we’re family.
I stared at the screen for three long, silent seconds.
A cold, calm sense of absolute peace washed over me. I didn't feel anger. I didn't feel pity. My heart, once frozen and battered on the kitchen tile floor, had been forged into unbreakable steel.
May you like
With a steady hand, I tapped the screen, blocked the number permanently, and tossed the phone face-down onto the desk.
Some recipes are best served ice cold.
