Chapter 3 - The Socialite’s Gambit
By noon,
the news of Patricia’s "card failure" had reached the upper echelons of Minneapolis society.
My phone was buzzing with texts from "friends" who hadn't spoken to me in years,
all of them fishing for gossip.
I ignored them all,
focusing instead on the strategy I was forming with my divorce attorney,
Marcus Thorne.
Marcus was a bulldog of a man,
known for tearing through corporate shields like they were tissue paper.
"You're telling me you have the original certificates?"
Marcus asked over the speakerphone,
his voice crackling with excitement.
"I have them,"
I said,
looking at the digital copies on my screen.
"And I have a ledger that shows Harrison has been embezzling from the employee pension fund to cover his mother’s spending."
"Claire,
if this is true,
you don't just have a divorce settlement,"
Marcus said.
"You have the power to dismantle their entire board of directors."
"But we have to move fast,"
I warned.
"Harrison tried to break in this morning."
"He knows I have something,
even if he doesn't know exactly what."
"I'll file for an emergency injunction,"
Marcus promised.
"But keep those documents safe."
"Don't leave the penthouse."
I hung up,
feeling the walls of my home start to feel less like a sanctuary and more like a target.
I decided to strike first.
I opened my social media and posted a single,
high-resolution photo.
It wasn't a photo of the ledger.
It was a photo of a single,
handwritten note from Patricia,
found in my father's files.
Arthur,
if you don't cover the shortfall this month,
the auditors will find out about the Cayman accounts.
Harrison says we need another five million.
I captioned it:
"Found some interesting family history today.
Integrity isn't something you can buy with someone else's credit card."
The internet exploded.
Within minutes,
the Voss Global PR team was in a tailspin.
The comment section was a battlefield.
Patricia tried to call me thirty times in ten minutes.
I blocked her number again.
Then,
a knock at the door.
Not a drill this time.
A rhythmic,
polite tapping.
I checked the camera.
It was Harrison.
He was alone,
looking humbled,
holding a bouquet of lilies—my favorite.
"Claire,
please,"
he said through the intercom.
"I made a mistake this morning."
"I was stressed,
and my mother was hysterical."
"Can we just talk?
For old times' sake?"
I looked at the lilies and felt a wave of nausea.
He thought he could still charm me.
He thought I was still the same girl who would forgive his lies for a few pretty flowers.
"The only thing we have to talk about,
Harrison,
is how much you're going to enjoy prison,"
I said.
May you like
"Leave the flowers on the mat."
"They'll look lovely at the funeral for your reputation."
