Chapter 6 - The Broken Alliance
The holding facility in Lower Manhattan was gray, damp, and smelled of cheap floor cleaner and industrial disinfectant. Graham Whitmore sat behind a plexiglass partition, wearing a dull orange jumpsuit that clashed violently with his aristocratic bone structure. His dark hair was unwashed, his jaw covered in rough, uneven stubble.
Across the partition sat Sloane Mercer. The Chanel suits and designer totes were gone; she wore an oversized wool coat and had dark rings under her swollen eyes. Her diamond ring had been confiscated by the court-appointed receivers the previous night when she tried to pawn it for bail money.
“Did your father post the bond?” Graham demanded through the metallic receiver, his voice hoarse and frantic. “Where is Croft? Why isn't Jonathan filing the habeas petition?”
Sloane stared at him, a cold, bitter smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Croft quit this morning, Graham. He said your legal defense fund is empty, and he refuses to represent an unindicted co-conspirator on credit. And my father? My father hung up on me the moment the indictment hit the front page of the New York Post.”
“You have to find the money, Sloane,” Graham pleaded, leaning his forehead against the scratch-resistant glass. “You still have the offshore account routing codes I gave you in St. Barts. Transfer the funds to a private retainer!”
Sloane laughed—a sharp, hysterical sound that drew a warning glance from the guard by the door.
“Those accounts don't exist anymore, Graham,” she said, her voice trembling with venomous rage. “Claire’s forensic team seized them twelve hours ago under an international Mareva injunction. Every single cent is frozen. I’m staying in a two-star motel in Queens because the building super locked me out of the 57th Street penthouse. I had to beg a friend for subway fare just to come down here!”
Graham’s eyes widened with fury. “You came here to complain about a motel? I am facing twenty years in federal prison! You wanted the Whitmore lifestyle, Sloane! You paraded yourself in front of Claire at the spring luncheon! You provoked her!”
“I provoked her?” Sloane leaned forward, her fingernails digging into the wooden table. “You told me she was weak! You swore she was a sheltered heiress who would crumble the moment we demanded the divorce! You convinced me that you owned that empire, Graham! You lied to me about everything!”
“I gave you a fourteen-million-dollar penthouse!”
“You gave me a crime scene!” Sloane stood up so fast the plastic chair screeched against the concrete floor. She placed both hands over her pregnant belly, glaring at him with pure disgust. “You aren't a visionary founder. You’re a con artist who stole from his wife and got caught. Don't call me again. My attorney is drawing up papers to give this baby my maiden name. At least that name won't carry a twenty-year sentence.”
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She slammed the receiver down and walked out of the visitor room without looking back.
Graham hammered both fists against the plexiglass, screaming her name until two burly corrections officers dragged him away from the glass, kicking and swearing into the empty hallway.
