Chapter 12 - The Ghost of Whitmore Capital
While Marcus and I reviewed blueprints in Greenwich, the federal prison facility in upstate New York was drafty, gray, and smelled of industrial floor wax.
Grant Whitmore sat on the edge of a narrow metal bunk, staring at a concrete wall that hadn't changed its shade of institutional green in thirty years. His designer clothes had long since been replaced by coarse orange cotton, and the polished smile that had once charmed investors across Manhattan had cracked under the weight of eighteen-hour interrogation sessions and federal indictments.
The heavy steel door clanged open. A guard banged a baton against the bars. "Whitmore. Visitor in booth four. Make it quick."
Grant’s heart gave a hopeful, desperate lurch. For months, he had convinced himself that someone—an old fraternity brother, a former client, or even Lena—would realize they couldn't survive without him and come to bail him out. He hurried down the corridor, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum, and slid into the plastic chair behind the scratched plexiglass divider.
He picked up the heavy telephone receiver with trembling fingers.
On the other side of the glass sat Savannah Cole.
She wasn't wearing champagne silk. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a messy, unwashed ponytail, and she wore a faded gray hoodie that swallowed her frame. Gone was the influencer persona, the curated lighting, and the captions about knowing your worth.
"Savannah," Grant breathed into the receiver, his voice cracking with a mix of relief and lingering resentment. "Thank God. You got my letters? You found a lawyer who can appeal the asset freeze?"
Savannah stared at him through the glass, her eyes flat and devoid of any warmth. "There is no lawyer, Grant. There is no appeal. My apartment in Queens is being repossessed next week, and my social media accounts were permanently banned after the federal fraud links went public."
"But—you said you had connections! You said your family could help—"
"My family are middle-class accountants in Ohio, Grant!" Savannah snapped, her voice carrying a sharp, bitter edge that made him flinch. "I lied about my background just like you lied about your money! I thought you were my ticket into Greenwich high society. I thought you actually owned Hawthorne House!"
"It was supposed to be mine!" Grant shouted, pounding his fist against the glass. A guard stepped forward, resting a hand on his holster. Grant lowered his voice, his chest heaving. "It was all supposed to be mine."
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"Well, it isn't," Savannah whispered, standing up and dropping her phone back onto its cradle. She looked at him with pure, unadulterated disgust. "We bought into a ghost, Grant. And now we're paying the price."
She turned and walked out of the visitation room, leaving him alone in the dark.
