Chapter 6 - The Freezing Morning
By 2:00 AM, the Meridian Heritage Gala had dispersed into an intoxicating storm of viral headlines.
Every major news outlet—from Bloomberg to the Wall Street Journal, down to TikTok and Reddit threads—was plastered with screenshots of Elowen Sterling on the grand staircase.
“WIFE LEFT TO WASH DISHES REVEALED AS BILLIONAIRE CHAIRWOMAN WHO OWNS HER HUSBAND’S DEBT.”
The internet had turned Weston Prescott into the international laughingstock of the corporate world.
A heavy, freezing rain pounded against the pavement outside the historic Prescott Holdings skyscraper in midtown Manhattan. Weston stumbled out of a yellow cab, his hair plastered to his forehead, his tuxedo ruined, having been abandoned by Serena Vance the second the gala ended.
Serena had jumped into the first black SUV she could find, shrieking over her shoulder that Vance Logistics would sue him for fraud before the stock exchange opened.
Weston pushed through the revolving glass doors of the skyscraper, desperate to reach his 42nd-floor office to access his private safe and offshore reserve accounts.
“Mr. Prescott,” a booming voice echoed through the marble lobby.
Weston jerked around.
Standing in the lobby were four federal marshals flanked by Arthur Vance, Sovereign’s head of corporate audit, and three armed private security officers. Moving boxes were already stacked neatly near the security turnstiles.
“What is the meaning of this?!” Weston shouted, wiping freezing rain from his eyes. “This is my building! Get out of my lobby!”
“Your lease was guaranteed by Sovereign Capital, Mr. Prescott,” the lead federal marshal replied, flashing a signed judicial order. “At 12:01 AM, following default on senior debentures, the building’s master leaseholder repossessed the premises. All corporate servers, hard drives, and files have been placed under federal receivership pending an audit of misappropriated trust funds.”
“Misappropriated trust funds? What are you talking about?!”
Julian stepped forward from the elevator bank, holding a tablet. “Over the past fourteen months, you funneled two million dollars of company credit into personal gifts: a five-carat diamond bracelet for Ms. Serena Vance, two leased sports cars registered under her shell company, and private villa bookings in St. Barts. You coded them as ‘logistics operational research.’”
Julian gave a cold, dry smile. “Chairwoman Sterling personally authorized the forensic audit last week. Every single receipt has been submitted to the District Attorney.”
Weston felt the lobby spin around him. The towering glass, the polished brass logos, the portraits of his grandfather on the wall—all of it seemed to dissolve into dust.
“Where’s my mother?” Weston stammered, his throat burning. “Claudia… she was supposed to meet me here.”
“Your mother went to the Greenwich estate,” Julian answered calmly. “Where the local sheriff’s department informed her that her luggage had already been set out at the guard gate. I believe she is currently sitting at a 24-hour diner on Route 9 with four suitcases and an inactive American Express card.”
“You ruined us!” Weston lunged at Julian, but two officers instantly tackled him to the floor, forcing his face against the freezing marble.
“Careful with the floor, Mr. Prescott,” Julian whispered softly, standing over him, his voice mirroring the cruel warning Weston had given his wife hours before. “That Italian marble was imported.”
The officers hauled Weston to his feet, escorted him through the revolving doors, and shoved him out onto the rain-slicked sidewalk. His soggy leather folder of business proposals landed with a wet slap in the gutter beside his shoes.
He had no office. No house. No car. No lines of credit.
He stood alone in the cold drizzle, hearing the early morning delivery trucks rumble through the city, clutching his damp jacket around his chest.
Across the street, a sleek, black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled slowly up to the curb.
The tinted rear window slid down two inches.
Inside the climate-controlled warmth of the luxury vehicle, Elowen sat sipping a cup of black coffee. She had changed into a tailored ivory wool coat, her face serene, radiant, and completely unburdened.
Weston saw her. He sprinted across the asphalt, splashing through black puddles, slamming his palms against the bulletproof glass of the Phantom.
“Elowen! Elowen, listen to me!” he wept, tears mixing with the dirty street rain on his cheeks. “I’m sorry! I swear to God I’m sorry! I was blind! Serena manipulated me! My mother pressured me! I love you, El! We’ve been together eight years! You can’t leave me on the street like this! Give me one more chance!”
Elowen did not turn her head to meet his desperate, frantic gaze.
She pressed a button on the armrest. The window silently rolled back up, sealing out the damp chill and his muffled, pathetic cries.
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“Drive, Julian,” she commanded softly.
The Rolls-Royce accelerated smoothly into the morning mist, leaving Weston Prescott on his knees in the gutter, surrounded by trash and yesterday's broken promises.
