Chapter 7 - THE FALL FROM GRACE IN CHICAGOWhile Elena was unlocking the secrets of her past in Columbus, Grant Holloway was living through his own personal nightmare three hundred miles away in Chicago.
The apartment he shared with Elena—a sprawling luxury penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan, paid for entirely by Elena's personal family trust (a fact Grant had conveniently forgotten)—was completely dark.
Grant stumbled through the front door, slamming it behind him, his suit jacket rumpled, his tie hanging loose around his neck like a noose.
"Madison?" he called out, his voice desperate. "Madison, where are you? We need to talk. My accounts are frozen. The corporate card was declined at the gas station! Vance has gone completely rogue!"
No answer.
He flipped on the entryway light.
The apartment was eerily quiet. But as he walked into the master living room, he noticed something horrifying.
All of Madison’s designer shoes, her Louis Vuitton luggage, her fur coats, and her makeup trays were gone.
On the marble coffee table sat a single, handwritten sticky note:
Grant—Don’t call me. Your mother told me you lost your job, your stock options, and your credit. I’m staying with Brad. Good luck with the divorce.
Grant stared at the note, his knees buckling beneath him. He grabbed the marble edge of the table, gasping for air as the room spun.
Brad? Brad Vance, Director Vance's nephew, who had been trying to get into Madison’s circle for months. She hadn't loved him. She hadn't even liked him. She had loved his status. And the second Grant’s status evaporated, she traded him out with the cold efficiency of a stockbroker dumping toxic shares.
"No..." Grant whispered, sliding down the marble table until he hit the hardwood floor. "No, no, no..."
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
With shaking, desperate fingers, he hauled it out, praying it was a mistake—that Vance had called to apologize, that Elena had changed her mind, that the nightmare was over.
It wasn't Vance.
It was an automated alert from his bank:
ALERT: PRIMARY MORTGAGE FOR [PENTHOUSE ADDRESS] DEFAULTED. NOTICE OF FORECLOSURE ISSUED BY CRESTLINE HOLDINGS REAL ESTATE DIVISION.
Grant stared at the screen in sheer horror.
Crestline Holdings didn't just own the airlines. They owned the mortgage lender that held the note on his penthouse.
They were evicting him from his own home within twenty-four hours.
And then, his phone rang with an incoming call. An unknown number from Zurich.
With trembling hands, Grant swiped to answer.
"Hello?" he croaked.
"Mr. Holloway," a crisp, artificial voice spoke through the speaker. "This is the legal compliance division of Crestline Air Holdings. You are formally summoned to appear at the corporate headquarters auditorium in Chicago tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM for an executive termination and asset seizure hearing. Failure to attend will result in immediate federal bench warrants for corporate fraud."
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The line went dead with a sharp click.
Grant sat alone on the dark floor of his empty penthouse, surrounded by luxury he had never truly earned, realizing too late that he had spent his entire life trying to step on giants, only to find out he had been dancing on the sleeping dragon all along.
