Chapter 8 - The Ghost of Wabash AvenueThe neon signs of Wabash Avenue bled red and gold into the wet pavement, casting long, fractured reflections where Evelyn had stood six months ago freezing in her thin wool coat.
Now, sitting in the back of a bulletproof Maybach with tinted glass, she watched the rain streak down the window. Her reflection in the glass showed no trace of the exhausted, humiliated woman who had clutched a worn leather purse under a closed pharmacy awning.
Martin Hale sat across from her, turning a secure encrypted phone over in his palm.
"The media fallout from Grant’s bankruptcy filing is hitting its peak," Martin said, his voice laced with grim satisfaction. "Financial Times has already dubbed it 'The Fall of the Mercer Dynasty.' And Victoria Mercer? She’s reportedly retreated to their family estate in Lake Geneva, completely cut off from public view."
Evelyn didn't look up from her tablet. Her fingers smoothly scrolled through the acquisition logs of Mercer Capital’s remaining assets.
"Victoria thought her last name was an unbreakable shield," Evelyn said quietly. "She spent decades teaching Grant that people like my mother and me were raw materials meant to be consumed and discarded when our utility expired."
"And what about Grant himself?" Martin asked, raising an eyebrow. "Our liquidation team reports he’s been haunting local bars around the financial district, trying to borrow capital from old associates who won't even return his phone calls."
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Evelyn closed her tablet with a soft click. The screen went dark, reflecting the cold, sharp curve of her jawline.
"Let him wander," Evelyn said, her voice devoid of malice, replaced entirely by chilling indifference. "A man who believes his worth is defined by a throne built on other people's labor deserves to experience what it means to be entirely erased from the ledger."
