Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Greenwich
For the next two weeks, the Greenwich rumor mill went into absolute overdrive.
While Raymond and Margaret assumed I was licking my wounds in some cheap motel, nursing my supposed failures, I was living inside the Sterling fortress under Arthur’s meticulous protection. My morning sickness was brutal, but Arthur’s private medical team monitored every heartbeat of my three growing babies with state-of-the-art precision.
Meanwhile, Raymond’s corporate world began to quietly unravel.
Arthur’s legal team dismantled Whitmore Logistics piece by piece, freezing liquid assets, calling in loans, and quietly buying up every mortgage tied to the Greenwich estate. Raymond was too blinded by his impending wedding to Cynthia and his supposed social triumph to notice the storm gathering on the horizon.
Margaret, true to form, was planning a lavish engagement gala at the country club to officially introduce Cynthia to high society and cast me into permanent oblivion. Invitations were sent out to every elite family in New York.
My name was never mentioned. Until the day the special delivery arrived at Raymond’s office.
It was an official legal summons, hand-delivered by a federal marshal. Not only was I contesting the hasty divorce settlement on grounds of financial concealment and emotional abuse, but I was also filing a countersuit for full ownership of the Greenwich estate—the deed to which, as Arthur’s investigators discovered, had secretly been transferred into my maiden name by my grandfather years ago.
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Raymond panicked. He tried to call my cell phone fifty times in one hour. I let every single call go straight to voicemail.
Then came the night of the gala.
