Chapter 6 - The Unraveling
On Thursday afternoon, Camille Bennett was arrested at an upscale café on the Upper East Side.
The press, tipped off by an anonymous source within the precinct, was waiting outside. Camille was wearing oversized designer sunglasses, a camel-hair coat, and black leather boots. When the two uniformed officers placed the steel handcuffs around her wrists, she began screaming at the top of her lungs, kicking at the cameras and calling the arresting officers “paupers” who would lose their pensions for touching her.
The footage of her arrest aired on every evening news program in the tri-state area.
Within forty-eight hours, the Bennett family’s carefully curated world imploded. Creditors, emboldened by the public collapse of their social standing, filed eight separate foreclosure petitions against Charles Bennett’s remaining properties. The private school where Camille’s younger sister attended requested that the family settle two semesters of unpaid tuition before the girl could return to class.
Ethan saw it all from the small, one-bedroom apartment I owned above our company’s secondary warehouse in Queens.
I hadn't thrown him onto the street, but I had stripped him of every luxury he took for granted. The sports cars had been returned to the leasing agency. The credit cards with my company’s name on them had been canceled. His phone had been switched to a basic prepaid plan. If he wanted to eat, he had to walk down the block to the local deli and pay with the modest weekly stipend Marcus Vance allowed him from his remaining non-frozen personal savings.
On Friday night, there was a knock at my study door.
Helen walked in holding a warm mug of chamomile tea. She sat in the armchair opposite my desk. The bruising on her face had begun to fade into a faint yellowish hue, and she moved with more ease, though she still favored her right leg when she walked.
“He called me today,” Helen said softly.
I looked up from my ledger. “Ethan?”
She nodded. “He called from a payphone near the train station. His prepaid phone ran out of minutes.”
“Did he ask for money?”
“No,” Helen said, a faint, sad smile touching her lips. “He asked how my ribs were. He asked if the doctor gave me anything for the pain.”
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly. “It’s a start. But words are cheap, Helen. He had twenty-four years of our love and threw it in the mud for six months of Camille Bennett’s approval.”
“I know,” she said, her voice dropping. “I’m not telling you to write him a check, Arthur. I’m just telling you that our son is still in there somewhere, buried under the wreckage.”
Before I could reply, my private line rang. The caller ID displayed an unknown number from an attorney’s office in Midtown.
I pressed speakerphone. “Arthur Whitaker.”
“Mr. Whitaker, my name is Raymond Vance—no relation to your attorney, I assure you,” a smooth, oily voice came through the speaker. “I represent Miss Camille Bennett. We have received your petition for annulment, as well as the criminal complaint filed with the district attorney.”
“Then you know your client is in a very precarious position, Mr. Vance,” I said.
“Perhaps,” the lawyer replied smoothly. “However, Miss Bennett has instructed me to inform you that she is currently four weeks pregnant with your son’s child.”
The study went dead silent. Helen’s hand flew to her throat, her teacup rattling dangerously on the saucer.
I felt a cold wire tighten around my heart. “Go on.”
“Miss Bennett is prepared to sign the annulment papers without contest,” Raymond Vance continued, his voice dripping with calculated leverage. “She is also prepared to submit a formal letter of apology to Mrs. Whitaker and decline to challenge the civil restraining orders. In exchange, she requires a one-time settlement of five million dollars, deposited into a blind trust for the child’s upbringing, plus the title to the Maple Ridge property in upstate New York.”
Helen looked at me, her eyes wide with sudden panic. Maple Ridge was our sanctuary. It was where her parents were buried. It was the only thing Camille’s family had truly wanted from the start.
I didn't hesitate.
“Tell your client that her terms are rejected,” I said.
There was a pause on the other end. “Mr. Whitaker, I don't think you understand. This is your grandchild. If this goes to a public paternity battle, the media circus will make the wedding look like a private tea party. The Bennett family will drag this through family court for the next eighteen years.”
“Tell Camille,” I said, my voice dropping an octave into a low, terrifying growl, “that if she takes one step toward a family court judge, Marcus Vance will present the surveillance footage from the St. Regis hotel from three weeks ago.”
The line went completely quiet.
“What surveillance footage?” Raymond Vance asked, his confidence suddenly faltering.
“The footage showing Camille meeting with Julian Rossi, her former fiancé, in suite 412 on the night of her bachelorette party,” I said evenly. “The same Julian Rossi who was arrested last month for operating an illegal high-stakes poker den in Soho. Ethan was in Chicago that week, Mr. Vance. If your client is indeed pregnant, we will welcome a court-ordered DNA test the moment that child is born. But if the test comes back negative, I will personally fund a civil suit against Camille for extortion that will keep her in bankruptcy court until she is an old woman.”
I didn't wait for his answer. I terminated the call and looked at Helen.
Her face was pale, but her chin was firm. “Was that real, Arthur? The footage from the St. Regis?”
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“Marcus pulls records on everyone who tries to join this family, Helen,” I said quietly. “I didn't want to show it to Ethan before the wedding because I thought he would accuse me of trying to sabotage his happiness. I wanted to believe she was just a spoiled girl who loved him. But she was a predator from day one.”
***
