Sarah’s voice trembled slightly, not with sadness, but with suppressed rage. “You wanted to fly, Alex? Fine. Fly. But I’m taking back the wings I bought you.”
Sarah turned to the board. “I call for a vote to remove Alexander Hawthorne as CEO, effective immediately, pending a criminal investigation into embezzlement.”
“Seconded,” said a board member, whom Alexander considered a friend.
“All in favor?”
Every hand in the room went up. Even Leonard’s.
“Motion carried,” Sarah said. She looked at the security guards. “Please escort Mr. Hawthorne off the premises. He is not to remove any items from his office. His personal effects will be boxed and shipped to, well, wherever he ends up living.”
“Sarah, wait,” Alexander pleaded, his arrogance finally shattering into panic. He reached for her arm.
The guard stepped in, grabbing Alexander’s wrist in a vise grip. “Don’t touch her, sir.”
“Sarah, please! We can talk about this. I was stressed. I made mistakes. I love you!”
Sarah looked at him. For a second, Alexander saw a flash of the woman who had loved him for ten years. But then he saw the steel door of the Vanderquilt vault slam shut in her eyes.
“You don’t love me, Alex,” she said. “You loved the idea that you were better than me. Goodbye.”
She turned her back on him. “Get him out of here,” William Vanderquilt ordered.
As Alexander was dragged out of the boardroom, screaming obscenities, Sarah didn’t look back. She sat down in the CEO’s chair, took a deep breath, and looked at the board.
“Now,” she said, “let’s get to work on cleaning up this mess.”
The sidewalk outside Hawthorne Tech was cold. It was a brisk New York afternoon, but to Alexander, it felt like the Arctic. He stood there: sans coat, sans briefcase, sans dignity.
The security guards had literally tossed him out the revolving doors. Passers-by were staring. Some were pointing. Alexander realized with a jolt of horror that someone was filming him with a phone.
He needed to get away. He needed a drink. He needed a plan.
He patted his pockets. He still had his phone and his wallet. That was something. He hailed a cab—the Alexander Hawthorne, taking a yellow cab like a common tourist.
“The Ritz-Carlton,” he snapped at the driver.
He dialed Jessica. She was his lifeline now. She was smart. She was connected. And she, unlike Sarah, understood the world of high stakes. They could flee the country. He had hidden some cash, surely.
“Alex,” Jessica answered on the first ring. “Where are you? I’ve been waiting for two hours. The room service champagne is warm.”
“Forget the champagne,” Alexander barked, his voice shaking. “Pack your bags. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving? What are you talking about? Did you win?”
“It’s complicated. Just pack. I’m five minutes away.”
He hung up. He checked his bank app on his phone. He needed to transfer whatever cash he had in his checking account to a prepaid card before the freeze hit.
He logged in. Balance: $0.00.
He blinked. He refreshed the page.
Balance: -$4,250.00. Overdraft.
“What?!” he screamed, startling the cab driver. “That’s impossible. There was two hundred thousand in there this morning!”
He tapped on the transaction history. One massive transfer labeled: COURT ORDERED ASSET FREEZE. SUPERIOR COURT DOCKET #49221.
“No, no, no…”
The cab pulled up to the Ritz.
“That’ll be twenty-two fifty,” the driver said.
Alexander handed over his black American Express card. The driver swiped it on his mobile terminal.
“Declined.”
“Try it again,” Alexander snapped. “It’s a black card. It has no limit.”
“It’s declined, buddy. Try another one.”
Alexander tried his Visa. Declined. His MasterCard. Declined.
The driver turned around, his eyes narrowing. “You got cash?”
Alexander checked his wallet. He had a single twenty-dollar bill. He threw it at the driver. “Keep the change.”
He scrambled out of the cab and ran into the lobby. The opulence of the Ritz, usually comforting, now felt mocking. He sprinted to the elevators and went up to the suite.
He burst into the room. Jessica was lounging on the sofa, scrolling through her phone. She looked up, annoyed, but her expression changed when she saw him. He was disheveled, sweating, his tie crooked.
“My God, Alex,” she said. “You look like a wreck. What happened?”
“They froze the accounts,” Alexander gasped, pacing the room. “They knew everything. Sarah… she’s not who we thought she was.”
Jessica frowned. “What do you mean? She’s the peasant from Wyoming.”
“She’s a Vanderquilt.”
Jessica dropped her phone. It landed on the carpet with a soft thud. “A Vanderquilt? Like… the Vanderquilts?”
“Yes, her father is William Vanderquilt. They ambushed me. They took the company. They took the house. They took everything.”
He grabbed Jessica’s shoulders. “But we can fix this. You have savings, right? We can go to Mexico. I can rebuild. I have contacts.”
Jessica stared at him. Slowly, she reached up and removed his hands from her shoulders. She stood up and took a step back.
“You lost the company?” she asked, her voice dangerously calm.
“They stole it. But I’ll get it back. I just need… I need you to float us for a few weeks.”
Jessica laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. It was a cold, cruel sound that reminded him of Arthur Pendergast.
“‘Float us’?” she repeated. “Alex, do you know why I’m with you?”
“Because we’re soulmates,” Alexander said, though it sounded hollow even to him. “Because we understand each other.”
“I’m with you because you bought me a Cartier bracelet last Tuesday,” Jessica said flatly. “I’m with you because you promised to make me VP of Marketing. I’m with you because you are a winner.”
She looked him up and down, curling her lip in disgust. “But right now? You look like a loser. A broke loser.”
“Jessica, don’t—”
“Jessica me? You’re telling me you’re up against the Vanderquilts. You’re dead meat, Alex. They will crush you into dust. And I am not getting dust on my Gucci heels.”
She walked over to the bed, grabbed her purse, and slung it over her shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Alexander asked, his voice cracking.
“Out. I have a date with that hedge fund guy, Michael. He’s been texting me for weeks. I didn’t answer because you were the bigger fish.” She shrugged. “Now you’re just bait.”
“You can’t leave me. I left my wife for you. And she turned out to be a billionaire.”
Jessica scoffed, opening the door. “Looks like you’re the idiot, Alex. Don’t call me.”
She slammed the door. Alexander stood in the silence of the hotel suite. He was alone. Truly alone.
A knock at the door made him jump. Hope flared in his chest. Jessica came back.
He rushed to open it. It wasn’t Jessica. It was Victoria Vanderquilt Sterling. She was flanked by two police officers.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” Victoria said, her voice crisp and professional. She held out a manila envelope.
“What is this?” Alexander whispered.
“I tried to catch you at the office, but you left in such a hurry,” Victoria said. “This is a subpoena and a warrant.”
“Warrant?”
“Grand larceny, fraud, embezzlement,” Victoria listed calmly. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “My father doesn’t like it when people steal from his family. We did a full forensic audit over lunch. It seems you stole about five million dollars from the company accounts over the last four years.”
The police officers stepped forward. “Alexander Hawthorne, you are under arrest.”
“No,” Alexander whimpered as the handcuffs clicked around his wrists. “This can’t be real.”
“Oh, it’s very real,” Victoria said, watching as the officers turned him around. “And Alex? The hotel manager asked me to tell you that your credit card was declined for the room. They’ll be holding your luggage until payment is rendered.”
“I have nothing!” Alexander screamed as he was led down the hallway past stunned hotel guests. “I have nothing!”
Victoria watched him go, then pulled out her phone. She dialed a number.
“Hey, Dad,” she said. “It’s done. He’s in custody. Tell Sarah she can go home. The pest control is finished.”
Rikers Island was a far cry from the penthouse overlooking Central Park. The air smelled of industrial cleaner and unwashed bodies. For Alexander Hawthorne, the 48 hours he spent in holding were a lifetime.
When he finally made bail—posted by a shady associate from his gambling days who demanded a 40% interest rate—Alexander emerged into the sunlight looking like a ghost. His bespoke suit was wrinkled. His stubble was graying, and his eyes were bloodshot.