Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Sterlings
I spent the rest of the day in a haze of documents and stories.
Owen told me about my mother,
about her rebellious spirit,
and her laugh that could fill a stadium.
He showed me photos of a house in Connecticut that looked like a castle.
"That is your home,"
he said.
"It has been maintained by the trust for decades."
"The gardens are still kept exactly as your mother liked them."
I looked at a photo of a woman who had my eyes and my jawline.
She looked brave.
She looked like she didn't care what the world thought of her.
"Why didn't she tell me?"
I asked,
my heart aching for the woman I never knew.
"She wanted you to be free,"
Owen explained.
"She thought the money would bring the wrong kind of people into your life."
"She wasn't entirely wrong,"
I said,
thinking of Harold.
I wondered if Harold had known all along.
Had he married me because he suspected my lineage?
No,
he was too arrogant for that.
He had married me because I was a "project,"
a girl he could mold into the perfect socialite.
He liked having a wife who was smarter than him,
as long as she never showed it.
Owen walked me to my car late that evening.
"I have arranged a legal team for you,"
he said.
"The best divorce attorneys in the country."
"And a security detail."
"They will be discreet,"
"But they will be there."
I thanked him,
feeling a strange sense of peace.
As I drove back to the penthouse,
the city lights seemed different.
They weren't stars I was reaching for anymore.
They were gems I already owned.
When I walked through the door,
Harold was waiting in the foyer.
He looked disheveled,
his tie hanging loose,
an empty glass in his hand.
"You’re late,"
he snapped.
"I’ve been calling Owen Rodgers' office all day."
"They wouldn't put me through."
I didn't answer him.
I walked straight to the bedroom to start packing.
He followed me,
his voice rising in pitch.
"What are you doing?"
"Anastasia,
look at me!"
"I found the report,"
he said,
holding up a folder.
"Anastasia Robbins."
"The girl from the middle of nowhere."
"And now Rodgers is claiming you're related to the Sterlings?"
He laughed,
a jagged,
ugly sound.
"It’s a scam."
"He’s using you to get to my foundation."
"He’s probably looking for a way to launder money through our accounts."
I stopped packing and looked at him.
"Our accounts,
Harold?"
"You haven't looked at the ledger in years."
"The foundation is empty,"
I said,
dropping the bomb.
He blinked,
the laughter dying in his throat.
"What are you talking about?"
"I’ve been covering your losses for five years,"
I said calmly.
"The bad investments,"
"The gambling in Macau,"
"The 'donations' you made to that mistress in Palm Beach."
"I paid for it all with the money I earned through my own private consulting."
Harold's face went from pale to purple.
"You...
you’ve been stealing from me?"
"No,"
I said,
zipping my suitcase.
"I’ve been saving you."
"But as of last night,"
"The bank is closed."
"I am leaving,
Harold."
"And I am taking the Prescott name with me when I go."
"You can keep the twenty dollars."
He reached out to grab my arm,
his face twisted with rage.
"You aren't going anywhere!"
But before he could touch me,
the doorbell rang.
Actually,
it didn't just ring.
It was the sound of authority.
I opened the door to find two men in dark suits.
"Mr. Prescott,"
the taller one said,
stepping inside without an invitation.
"We are here to serve you."
"And to ensure the safe departure of Ms. Robbins."
Harold looked at the men,
May you like
then at me,
his world finally beginning to crumble.
