Chapter 6 - The Fall of the House of MercerBy noon, the Park Avenue penthouse was swarming with federal agents, corporate auditors, and inventory specialists.
The priceless art on the walls—monet reproductions, modern sculptures, antique tapestries—were tagged with yellow barcode stickers by order of the bankruptcy court. The luxury cars parked in the subterranean garage were impounded. The bank accounts, the trust funds, the high-society credit cards—all frozen.
Sloan sat alone on a velvet armchair in the corner of the living room. Her silk bathrobe was still tied around her waist, her hair unbrushed, staring blankly at the marble floor as federal marshals cataloged her mother’s jewelry collection.
She looked smaller. Stripped of the designer dresses, the boardroom titles, and the protective shield of her father’s wealth, she looked like a stranger.
I walked over and stopped in front of her.
She didn't look up immediately. But after a long moment, her eyes slowly rose to meet mine.
“What happens to me?” she whispered.
“You’ll retain your personal assets that were legally acquired prior to our marriage,” I said evenly. “The prenuptial agreement we signed protects your personal savings account—the one with roughly two hundred thousand dollars in it. You won't starve, Sloan. You can rent a nice apartment in Brooklyn or Queens.”
A bitter, broken laugh escaped her lips. “An apartment in Queens… after all this.”
“You wanted to know who I was,” I reminded her. “You spent six years assuming I was ordinary because I didn't feel the need to broadcast my balance sheet. You thought wealth was something you could wear like a crown to look down on everyone else.”
She swallowed hard, tears finally spilling over her eyelashes. “Can we… can we start over, Darren? Please. We were happy once. In that little apartment with no dining table… remember?”
I remembered.
I remembered the girl who spilled coffee on my notes and laughed a real laugh.
But that girl had died somewhere between her first executive promotion and her first society gala. The woman sitting in front of me was just a stranger who happened to share her face.
May you like
“That girl died a long time ago, Sloan,” I said softly. “And you killed her.”
I turned around, pulled my coat tighter against the midday chill, and walked out of the penthouse for the last time.
