Chapter 5 - The Web Unravels
The sharp, metallic *click* of handcuffs closing around Derek’s wrists echoed off the glass walls of the Northstar boardroom like a funeral bell.
“Wait! You can’t do this!” Derek shrieked, twisting against the officer’s grip. “This is a civil matter! This is my wife! Brynn, tell them! Tell them it was an accident!”
I didn't answer. I sat perfectly motionless, watching him with the detached curiosity one might give an insect trapped under a glass jar.
“Mr. Halston,” Detective Miller said, his grip iron-clad on Derek’s bicep. “We have high-resolution medical documentation of the victim’s contusions taken at 1:15 a.m. by Dr. Evelyn Mercer. We also have audio-video footage recorded on a mobile device showing you pulling her hair, issuing verbal threats, and making physical contact. You have the right to remain silent.”
Trevor Vance backed away toward the far corner of the room, holding his hands up like a hostage. “I had nothing to do with that! I wasn't even there! Officer, I left the house at ten-thirty!”
“Trevor, shut up! Call my mother!” Derek roared as the two officers pushed him toward the boardroom exit. His expensive suit was wrinkled, his tie askew, his face purple with rage and humiliation. “Call my mother, Trevor! Tell her to get the lawyer! Brynn, you’re going to pay for this! You hear me? You’re my wife! Everything you own is half mine! I’ll take every penny of this damn company in the divorce!”
Julian Croft let out a short, dry chuckle from across the table.
“Mr. Halston,” Julian called out just as Derek reached the threshold of the frosted doors. “In the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, a marriage that has existed for less than twenty-four hours, wherein physical battery and fraudulent misrepresentation have occurred prior to consummation, is subject to immediate judicial annulment. There are no marital assets. You own nothing. You leave with nothing.”
The doors swung shut, cutting off Derek’s final, hysterical scream.
Inside the boardroom, a profound silence settled over the room.
I turned my gaze to the remaining partners and analysts. Every single one of them was looking at me with a mixture of reverence, shock, and profound respect.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, closing the leather folder with a soft snap. “I apologize for the theatrical interruption to our afternoon agenda. Let’s move to item three: the acquisition of BioTech Solutions. Elena, walk us through the Q2 projections.”
Elena cleared her throat, blinking away her astonishment. “Of… of course, Brynn. Turning to slide seven…”
For the next two hours, we worked. I didn't flinch. I didn't shed a tear. I directed capital allocations, questioned revenue models, and approved a forty-million-dollar buyout. I did what I had built my life to do: I commanded the room.
It was only at 5:30 p.m., when the boardroom had finally cleared and the afternoon sun began casting long, amber shadows across Center City, that Julian walked back into my office, carrying two crystal tumblers and a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Macallan.
He poured two fingers into each glass and slid one across my desk.
“To freedom,” Julian said quietly.
I picked up the glass, the heavy crystal cool against my palm. “Did the bridge lenders execute their clauses?”
Julian sat down in the leather armchair opposite me, loosening his tie. “Swiftly and without mercy. Derek’s short-term bridge loan for Apex was backed by a personal guarantee. Because he lied about Northstar’s pending investment, the lender declared immediate default. They froze Apex’s corporate accounts an hour ago.”
“And Derek’s personal accounts?”
“He had less than fourteen thousand dollars in cash,” Julian replied. “The rest of his lifestyle—the leased BMW, the custom suits, the watches—was floating on high-interest credit lines. But that’s not the worst of it for him.”
I took a slow sip of the amber liquid. It burned pleasantly down my throat. “Marjorie.”
Julian nodded, a dark smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Marjorie. In order to secure the final tranche of that bridge loan three weeks ago, Derek needed additional collateral. He convinced his mother to sign a second mortgage on her South Philadelphia rowhouse. The lender filed the foreclosure lien at four-fifteen this afternoon.”
I set my glass down.
The woman who had shoved a bucket of dirty mop water at my feet, who had sneered that I was penniless and fortunate to be tolerated by her precious son, had traded the roof over her head for an illusion.
“What about bail?” I asked.
“Set at fifty thousand dollars cash,” Julian said. “With his accounts frozen and the house encumbered by foreclosure liens, Marjorie couldn't scrape together five thousand, let alone fifty. Derek will be spending the next several weeks at Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility awaiting his preliminary hearing.”
My phone, resting on the blotter, suddenly lit up.
An unknown South Philadelphia number.
I pressed speakerphone.
“Brynn? Brynn, you evil, ungrateful tramp!”
Marjorie’s voice shrieked through the high-end speakers of my desk phone, distorted by rage and hysteria. “What did you do to my boy? The police dragged him out of the precinct in chains! They’re saying he defrauded a bank! They’re saying you’re some kind of billionaire!”
I leaned back in my leather chair, swirling the scotch in my glass.
May you like
“Good evening, Marjorie.”
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