Chapter 7 - Crawling in the Rain
By 8:00 PM that evening, the snow was falling softly over Midtown Manhattan.
The headquarters of Mercer Dynamics was surrounded by dark blue police cars, federal seizure vans, and news broadcast trucks. Federal marshals were rolling filing cabinets out of the glass lobby, while yellow police tape barred the front entrance.
Vanessa Vale had been arrested on the stage of the Plaza Hotel for grand larceny, wire fraud, and corporate embezzlement, dragged out in handcuffs in front of thirty national news crews.
Adrian Mercer sat on the cold granite steps outside his locked corporate building, his tuxedo jacket torn, his tie missing, shivering violently in the freezing rain.
He had no home—his estate in Buckhead had been seized by Sterling Global under an emergency asset recovery injunction. He had no money—his personal credit cards had been declined at the Plaza Hotel when he tried to pay for his parking. He had no friends—every board member, business partner, and associate had blocked his number before sunset.
A black Maybach pulled up to the curb in front of him.
The rear door opened.
Adrian’s eyes ignited with a wild, pathetic ray of desperation. He scrambled off the wet stone steps, falling onto his knees in the slush, crawling across the sidewalk toward the car door.
"Claire!" he sobbed, his face smeared with dirt and tears, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. "Claire, please! Look at me! I’m sorry! My God, Claire, I’m so sorry!"
I sat in the heated leather interior of the Maybach, looking down at him through the open door.
"Claire, she tricked me!" Adrian wept, pressing his hands together in a desperate prayer. "Vanessa set the whole thing up! She poisoned my mind! She made me think you were betraying me! I loved you, Claire! I still love you! Remember our wedding in Savannah? Remember how happy we were?!"
"I remember," I said, my voice quiet, flat, and completely destitute of warmth. "I remember sitting at our dining table working eighteen hours a day to fix your financial models while you were at expensive dinners bragging about your self-made success."
"I’ll give you everything back!" Adrian begged, reaching for my shoe, but Marcus—my father’s head of security—stepped between us, pinning Adrian’s wrist to the pavement with a heavy boot. "I’ll sign the company over to you! I’ll be your servant! Just please... tell your father to stop the lawsuits! Don't let them send me to prison!"
I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out a thick legal envelope, and dropped it onto the snow beside his head.
"What... what is this?" Adrian whimpered.
"A formal civil lawsuit for domestic assault, battery, and intentional infliction of emotional distress," I replied calmly. "Along with a signed confession from Dr. Sterling and the forensic evidence of every strike you landed on my body last night."
Adrian’s jaw dropped. "Claire... please..."
"You gave me nineteen strikes, Adrian," I said, leaning forward slightly so my voice reached his ear alone. "Tomorrow morning, the Manhattan District Attorney is filing nineteen counts of felony aggravated assault against you. One count for every strike."
"No... no, Claire! Mercy! Have mercy!" he shrieked, clutching his head in the freezing slush.
"You didn't show mercy when I told you the files were fake," I said smoothly. "You didn't show mercy when Vanessa watched you beat me with a belt. You wanted power, Adrian. Now you get justice."
May you like
I pulled the door shut.
The heavy, soundproof glass closed with a soft, expensive thud, sealing out his desperate screams as the Maybach pulled away smoothly into the snow-lit Manhattan night.
