Chapter 8 - Jasmine’s True Colors
Camden sat frozen in his chair, his chest heaving, his tie crooked. He looked like a drowning man watching the life raft drift away.
"The penthouse," he muttered, clutching at the edge of the walnut table. "The penthouse on 72nd Street. That’s in my name. The deed... the deed was signed to Camden Tatum!"
"Correction," Jaziel said, producing a blue-backed deed document. "The deed was purchased by Vance Residential Holdings LLC. You were granted a tenancy-at-will contingent upon your continued employment as Managing Director of Tatum Vanguard. Since your employment was terminated for cause at eight-fifteen this morning, your tenancy has expired."
"No... no, that’s my home! Everything I own is in that apartment!"
"Not anymore," I said, leaning forward. "At nine o'clock this morning, two bonded commercial moving crews, supervised by the New York County Sheriff's Department, entered the premises. Every bespoke suit, every pair of handmade Italian shoes, every gold watch you purchased with corporate disbursements has been tagged as disputed marital assets and moved to a climate-controlled impound facility in New Jersey."
"You left me with nothing?" Camden’s voice broke into a cracked, pathetic squeak. "Where am I supposed to sleep? Where am I supposed to go?"
"You can check into the YMCA," I replied without a shred of pity. "Assuming Jasmine’s credit card has enough balance left to cover the deposit."
Camden spun around to look at his mistress. "Jasmine... Jas, baby, look at me. We have the apartment in Soho you rented last month. We can stay there until my lawyers file an injunction—"
Jasmine looked at him as if he were a rat that had just crawled out of a sewer.
"The Soho apartment?" she shrieked, backing away toward the door. "That lease was tied to my corporate housing allowance from Tatum Vanguard! If the company is liquidated, that lease is canceled today!"
"We’ll figure it out!" Camden begged, reaching for her hand. "We still have the cars! The Aston Martin DBS, the Range Rover—"
"Mr. Tatum," Marcus Vance interrupted, holding up a small clear plastic bag containing four sets of luxury electronic key fobs. "The flatbed tow trucks cleared your vehicles from the underground parking garage forty-five minutes ago. They are currently being delivered to a luxury auto auction house in Greenwich to offset your outstanding corporate debt."
Camden slumped forward, his forehead hitting the cold polished wood of the conference table. The illusion was gone. The billion-dollar tech mogul, the charismatic visionary, the man who had kicked his wife in front of his peers—he was nothing more than an empty suit in an office that didn't belong to him.
"Vicki..." he wept, tears finally spilling over his cheeks, pooling on the glass table. "Please. We’re husband and wife. God joined us together. Think about our vows! Think about everything we’ve been through! I made a mistake! A terrible, stupid mistake! Jasmine seduced me—she manipulated me into thinking I needed an executive partner!"
"You cowardly piece of garbage!" Jasmine screamed, lunging forward and hurling her leather designer handbag directly at Camden’s head.
The brass buckle struck him across the cheekbone, leaving a bright red welt.
"You told me your wife was an illiterate trust-fund baby who didn't know how to balance a checkbook!" Jasmine spat, her eyes wild with rage. "You told me you controlled eighty percent of the trust! You swore to me that by this morning, I would be running a five-hundred-million-dollar publicly traded corporation!"
"Get out," I said quietly.
The room fell instantly silent.
I looked at Jasmine Rivers. "Take your coat, take your broken pride, and walk out of this building. If your name or your face ever appears within five hundred yards of any Aurelia property, foundation, or subsidiary, Jaziel will file a twenty-million-dollar tortious interference and corporate fraud suit against you personally. You will spend the rest of your life paying off legal judgments on a minimum-wage salary."
May you like
Jasmine didn't say another word. She turned on her four-inch designer heels, shoved the boardroom doors open, and sprinted down the hallway toward the service elevators, sobbing hysterically.
***
