Chapter 5 - The Confrontation
Harold didn't wait for the court date.
He showed up at the hotel on the third night,
bypassing security by claiming he was there for a foundation emergency.
He burst into the suite while I was having tea with Owen.
He looked terrible.
His eyes were bloodshot,
and he smelled of old cigars and desperation.
"You think you can just erase me?"
he shouted,
pointing a finger at me.
"Twenty-seven years!"
"I made you,
Anastasia!"
"You were a nobody until I put a ring on your finger!"
Owen stood up,
his presence filling the room like a cold front.
"Sit down,
Harold,"
he said,
his voice dangerously low.
"Or I will have the security team remove you through the service elevator."
Harold ignored him,
his gaze fixed on me.
"Is this what it’s about?"
"The money?"
"You’re going to run off with this old man because he found a trust fund?"
I set my teacup down,
my hands perfectly steady.
"No,
Harold."
"It’s about the twenty dollars."
He blinked,
confusion flitting across his face.
"What?"
"You stood in front of three hundred people,"
"People we have known for decades,"
"And you told them I was useless."
"You turned my life,
my hard work,
and my dignity into a punchline."
"And the worst part is,"
"You didn't even realize you were doing it."
"You’ve been auctioning me off in small pieces for years,"
"With every joke,"
"With every dismissal,"
"With every time you took credit for my brain."
"Owen didn't buy me,
Harold."
"He bought my freedom."
Harold's face crumpled,
the bravado slipping for just a second.
"I was joking,
Annie."
"You know how I am."
"I don't know you at all,"
I said.
"And I don't want to."
Owen stepped forward,
handing Harold a thick envelope.
"These are the terms,"
Owen said.
"You will sign the annulment."
"You will vacate the penthouse by Friday."
"And you will issue a public apology to your wife."
Harold looked at the envelope as if it were a bomb.
"And if I don't?"
"Then Sarah Vance will release the Macau files to the press,"
I said.
"And the IRS."
"And the board of directors."
"You’ll be in a prison cell before the month is out."
Harold looked at me,
and for the first time in twenty-seven years,
he was afraid of me.
He took the envelope and backed toward the door.
"You’ll regret this,"
he spat,
but there was no conviction in it.
"No,
Harold,"
I said,
as the door closed.
"I’ve already spent twenty-seven years regretting you."
May you like
"Today,"
"I’m moving on."
