Chapter 4 - The Fall of the House of HayesBy Sunday morning, the front page of every major newspaper in the Tri-State area didn't feature photos of Paige Bellamy’s million-dollar wedding.
Instead, bold black headlines screamed across the newsstands:
LOGISTICS EMPIRE COLLAPSES: RICHARD HAYES ARRESTED FOR FRAUD, ARSON, AND MONEY LAUNDERING.
Inside her former bedroom at her father’s sprawling suburban estate—a room she was packing up to leave forever—Sloan sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a childhood photo album.
The door pushed open quietly.
Paige stood in the doorway. She wasn't wearing white lace anymore. She wore a stained silk bathrobe, her mascara smeared, her hair tangled in a bird's nest of stress and exhaustion. Her new husband, Carter, had already fled back to his father’s estate in Greenwich by midnight, filing for an immediate annulment on the grounds of fraud.
“Are you happy now?” Paige whispered, her voice cracking with pathetic rage. “You destroyed our family. You put Daddy in handcuffs.”
Sloan didn't look up from the photo album. She turned a page, staring at a picture of her mother, looking tired and overworked, sitting at a kitchen table surrounded by tax forms.
“Our family was built on a foundation of sand, Paige,” Sloan said quietly, closing the album with a soft thud. She looked up at her sister, her expression devoid of anger, feeling only a profound, liberating emptiness. “Daddy didn't go to jail because of me. He went to jail because he thought he could steal from the wrong people—and because he thought I was too stupid to notice.”
“Carter left me,” Paige sobbed, sliding down the doorframe until she sat on the carpet. “The society board revoked my membership. Everyone is laughing at us.”
“No, Paige,” Sloan stood up, smoothing down her black jeans and picking up her leather duffel bag. “They aren't laughing. They’re terrified. Welcome to the real world.”
She walked past her sister without slowing down.
Downstairs, parked in the circular driveway under the bright morning sun, sat Dante’s matte-black SUV.
Dante leaned against the driver’s door, wearing a crisp charcoal suit, smoking a slim cigar. As Sloan walked out the front doors of the estate for the very last time, he pushed off the car, opened the passenger door for her, and offered his hand.
“All packed?” Dante asked.
May you like
Sloan slipped her hand into his, letting him pull her close against his side.
“Everything that matters,” she smiled.
