Chapter 3 - The Sinking StarletThe elevator doors didn't just close; they sealed with a heavy, hydraulic hiss that sounded like a vault door locking on a condemned cell.
Within fifteen minutes, Grant Carrington and Sloane Monroe were standing on the cold concrete of the building’s service alley, surrounded by three black leather suitcases, a designer garment bag containing a silver sequined gown, and the cold reality of Los Angeles at one in the morning.
There was no red carpet here. No flashbulbs. No adoring fans shouting their names. Only the hum of giant industrial air conditioners and the sharp smell of damp asphalt.
“This is your fault!” Sloane shrieked, her voice bouncing off the brick walls. She kicked a stray cardboard box with her six-inch stiletto heel, nearly snapping the fragile spike. “You told me his family was old news! You told me the old man was senile! Look at us! We’re standing in a garbage alley like two homeless addicts while a pregnant girl sits in a penthouse worth eighty million dollars!”
Grant stared blankly at his phone. His screen was locked. Not because of a poor signal, but because his corporate access codes had already been remotely wiped by Carrington Global’s IT department. His email app showed a single, automated notification: Account Suspended. Contact System Administrator.
“Shut up, Sloane,” Grant muttered, his voice dead.
“Don’t you dare tell me to shut up!” She grabbed the lapel of his expensive navy suit, her fingernails digging through the fabric. “Call your friends! Call the studio heads! Somebody has to give us a car, a room, something!”
Grant let out a harsh, bitter laugh. He looked down at the woman who had seemed so powerful under the theater lights just an hour ago. Without his money, without his status, and without the Carrington name behind her, Sloane Monroe was nothing more than a second-tier television actress whose contract options were up for review next month.
“My friends?” Grant’s laugh turned ragged. “Sloane, my phone has been ringing for the last two minutes. Not one of them is offering a room. They’re all calling to ask if their current production budgets are going to be audited by the new administration.”
At that exact moment, a sleek black sedan pulled silently into the alley. The tinted window rolled down smoothly, revealing the impassive face of Marcus, Theodore Carrington’s head of security.
Marcus didn't look at Grant. He looked past him toward the street.
“Mr. Carrington,” Marcus said flatly. “Your car is waiting at the corner. Public transit or a taxi is recommended for Miss Monroe. The penthouse security codes have been updated, and your personal credit cards linked to the corporate accounts have been frozen.”
Grant stiffened. “Marcus. Listen to me. My father is making a massive mistake. In forty-eight hours, the board will realize—”
“The board issued a press release three minutes ago, sir,” Marcus interrupted, his voice devoid of emotion. “Effective immediately, you have been terminated from all executive positions at Carrington Studios for gross negligence and misuse of corporate assets. Miss Monroe’s upcoming film project, Midnight Echoes, has also been pulled from the production schedule pending a forensic audit of its casting budget.”
May you like
Sloane gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “You can’t do that! That’s my lead role! That’s a twenty-million-dollar picture!”
“It was,” Marcus corrected calmly, rolling the window back up with a soft, mechanical hum. The sedan didn't offer them a ride; it simply idled for a moment before gliding out of the alley, leaving them alone in the dark.
