Chapter 3 - The Freezing of the Empire
Sloane tried to speak,
but no words came out,
only a small,
choking sound that was a far cry from the confident toast she had given moments ago.
She looked at Preston,
begging him with her eyes to do something,
to say something,
to reclaim the power she thought they shared.
But Preston was busy staring at his phone,
which was now buzzing incessantly with notifications from his bank,
his board of directors,
and his private security team.
Each buzz was a nail in the coffin of his social standing,
a digital reminder that the world he had carefully curated was burning to the ground.
"My accounts,"
Preston muttered,
his face contorted in disbelief,
"they’re all frozen."
Mason leaned in close,
his voice a low growl that only our table and the nearest guests could hear.
"We tracked every penny you moved into Sloane’s 'consulting' firm,
Preston."
"We found the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands,"
Mason added,
"and the wire transfers you made during our family’s Christmas dinner."
The humiliation that Sloane had intended for me was now flowing back toward them like a river of acid.
The very people Sloane wanted to impress were now looking at her with the pitying eyes she had reserved for me.
They weren't looking at a successful woman who had won a powerful man;
they were looking at a common thief who had been caught in the act.
I walked toward the stage,
the clinking of my heels on the marble floor the only sound in the massive room.
As I reached the steps,
the auction host,
a man who knew exactly which side his bread was buttered on,
quickly handed me his own microphone.
"Thank you,"
I said,
turning to face the audience of New York's elite.
"Tonight was supposed to be about charity,
about giving back to those who have nothing."
I looked directly at Sloane,
who was now shrinking back toward the velvet curtains.
"It seems fitting,
then,
that we are witnessing a woman lose everything in real-time."
"Security,"
I called out,
gesturing toward the two large men standing by the door.
"Miss Avery is wearing jewelry that is the property of the Hartwell estate,
and I believe she is trespassing at a private event."
The guards moved forward,
their expressions impassive,
as they approached the stage to escort Sloane away.
She began to scream then,
the elegant facade finally shattering into a thousand ugly pieces.
She shouted insults at me,
she cursed Preston for being weak,
and she clawed at the guards as they took her by the arms.
Her blood-red dress,
which had looked so regal moments ago,
now looked cheap and desperate as she was dragged toward the service exit.
The room watched in a state of stunned fascination,
capturing every moment on their gold-plated phones.
I turned back to Preston,
who was still sitting at the table,
looking like a ghost of the man I once loved.
"Twelve years,
Preston,"
I said,
not into the microphone,
but just to him.
May you like
"You traded a legacy for a moment of vanity,
and now you have neither."
