Chapter 3 - THE MORNING AFTERBy 8:00 AM the next morning, the financial world was in absolute structural meltdown.
I sat at my marble kitchen island, sipping a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea while scrolling through the financial news headlines flashing across my iPad screen. Every major outlet had picked up the story.
WALL STREET JOURNAL: Hale Enterprises Shares Halt Trading Following Emergency Bank Freeze.
FINANCIAL TIMES: Westbridge Acquisition Collapses Amid Allegations of Massive Wire Fraud Involving CEO Preston Hale.
PAGE SIX: High-Society Bloodbath: How Society Heirress Eleanor Hartwell Destroyed Her Husband’s Empire in a Single Night.
The attached photos were masterpieces of modern schadenfreude. One picture captured Preston stumbling out of the Mayfair Grand ballroom at midnight, surrounded by aggressive reporters shoving microphones in his face, his tie loosened, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. Another showed Sloane hiding behind an oversized pair of designer sunglasses, crying mascara tears as she tried to squeeze into a yellow cab while photographers flashed their cameras mercilessly.
My phone chimed with an incoming video call. It was Mason. I tapped accept.
My brother’s office looked like a war room. Maps, financial charts, and legal briefs covered every square inch of his mahogany desk. He looked tired, but his eyes were sharp and energized.
"Morning, sis," Mason greeted, taking a sip of black coffee. "Did you sleep well?"
"Like a baby," I replied, smiling faintly. "How is the patient?"
"Preston spent the last four hours locked in his lawyer's office trying to find a legal loophole," Mason scoffed, leaning back in his leather chair. "Spoiler alert: there aren't any. Arthur Vance and his team sealed every exit. The board of directors held an emergency vote at 6:00 AM. Preston was unanimously stripped of his CEO title and voted off the board with immediate effect."
"And Sloane?"
"Fired from her marketing firm an hour ago," Mason chuckled. "Apparently, her company didn't want their corporate brand associated with a federal fraud investigation and high-society public scandal. Her landlord also served her an eviction notice for the Tribeca penthouse because the lease payments bounced this morning."
I watched the steam rise from my teacup. "She wanted his name and his money. Looks like she got neither."
"Play stupid games, win stupid prizes," Mason remarked casually. "By the way, Preston is currently driving over to your penthouse. He managed to dodge the reporters by slipping out through the loading dock of his lawyer's building. He says he needs to talk to you 'as husband and wife.'"
I didn't flinch. I expected this. Preston was a narcissist of the highest order; he genuinely believed that his charm and twenty years of marriage could talk me out of total destruction.
"Let him come up," I said calmly. "I want to watch him try."
"Be careful, Eleanor. Desperate men do stupid things."
"Mason," I replied with a cold, quiet edge, "let’s not forget who holds the keys to the kingdom. He’s walking into a cage, not a negotiation."
Forty-five minutes later, the private elevator chime chimed in my foyer.
I sat calmly on the white velvet sofa in the living room, a copy of the formal divorce petition resting neatly on the glass coffee table before me.
The heavy front door unlocked with a mechanical click, and Preston stumbled inside.
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He looked like a ghost of the man who had walked into the Mayfair Grand the night before. His suit was rumpled, his hair unkempt, and the arrogant confidence that had defined his entire career was completely gone, replaced by a desperate, trembling panic.
"Eleanor," he breathed, taking a staggering step toward me. "Thank God. You have to listen to me. Please."
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