Chapter 8 - The Final Accounting
The after-party in the presidential suite was exclusive, restricted to only the highest-tier partners of Veritas Capital and selected international dignitaries.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding a glass of sparkling mineral water, looking out over the glittering expanse of the city skyline. Every light below—every skyscraper, every transport hub, every financial district—owed its operational heartbeat, directly or indirectly, to the empire I had built from the ground up long before I ever met Weston Prescott.
The heavy oak door of the suite opened, and David stepped in, escorting two men in sharp charcoal suits: corporate liquidators carrying thick leather briefcases.
“He’s outside, Madam Chairwoman,” David reported quietly. “Shall I have him removed by local authorities, or do you wish to grant him three minutes?”
I took a slow sip of my water, watching the reflection of the city lights shimmering in the glass.
“Send him in, David. Every tragedy deserves a proper denouement.”
A moment later, the door pushed open again.
Weston looked like a man who had been dragged through a hurricane. His tuxedo jacket was missing its left cufflink, his shirt collar was unbuttoned and stained with sweat, and his hair was wildly disheveled. The arrogant, untouchable CEO of Prescott Industries was completely gone, replaced by a desperate, hollowed-out shell of a man.
He stumbled into the suite, stopping short as he saw me standing by the window, framed by the millions of glittering lights of the metropolis below.
“Elowen...” he whispered, his voice cracking into a pathetic sob as he dropped heavily to his knees on the carpet. “Please. I’m begging you. The bank accounts are frozen. They’ve locked me out of the corporate servers. My mother... my mother had a panic attack when the repo agents showed up at the mansion an hour ago. We have nothing left.”
I turned slowly to face him. I didn't feel anger. I didn't feel triumph. I felt only the profound, cold liberation of a chapter finally closed.
“You have exactly what you earned, Weston,” I said softly. “You had a wife who loved you enough to fund your dreams in secret, and you traded her for a trophy date and a speech about how she wasn't 'polished' enough for your room.”
Weston crawled forward a few inches, reaching out a trembling hand toward the hem of my Balmain gown.
“I was an idiot,” he wept, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, pooling in his stubble. “I was blind. I didn't know... if you just give me one more chance... we can fix this. We’re husband and wife.”
May you like
I stepped back gracefully, keeping my dress out of his reach.
“We were,” I corrected, pulling the platinum wedding band from my left ring finger. I dropped it onto the glass coffee table between us, where it landed with a sharp, final clink. “Tomorrow morning, my divorce attorneys will file the paperwork. You will walk away with exactly what you brought into our marriage eight years ago: absolutely nothing.”
