Chapter 7 - The True Ownership
At the mention of fraud, the head of the catering company—a tall, impeccably dressed man who had been supervising the champagne service near the bar—instantly froze. He set down his clipboard and strode toward the dais, his face pale with alarm.
“Pardon me,” the caterer said, looking between Margaret and Arthur Vance. “Did you just say the master account is closed? I have an open balance of three hundred and twenty thousand dollars due by midnight for the service and vintage reserves!”
“And the orchestra,” the lead violinist called out from the mezzanine, lowering his bow. “Our agency payment was supposed to clear at six o’clock! The check bounced!”
Pandemonium erupted in the ballroom.
High-society matrons who had spent the last hour praising Margaret’s refined taste began gathering their fur coats and clutch purses, whispering venomously to their husbands.
“My God, they’re broke.”
“They don't have a penny. The daughter-in-law owned it all!”
“Let’s get out of here before the press arrives.”
“Wait!” Margaret screamed, her voice cracking into a shrill, hysterical screech. “Don't leave! Julianna! Senator! Please! This is a misunderstanding! It’s a domestic dispute! My son is a Whitmore! We have assets in London! We have—”
“You have nothing in London, Margaret,” Arthur Vance stated with brutal precision. “The London assets were liquidated eighteen months ago to cover Ethan’s failed tech hedge. You have this house, which now belongs to Claire. You have two leased luxury sedans that are scheduled for repossession on Monday. And you have four million dollars in personal unsecured credit card debt.”
Margaret staggered backward, her hip bumping against the ice sculpture of two entwined swans that sat at the center of the buffet. The sculpture wobbled, then tipped, crashing onto the marble floor and shattering into a thousand jagged pieces of ice.
Ethan fell to his knees beside the broken ice.
He didn't care about the cold water soaking through his trousers. He looked up at me, his eyes rimmed with red, tears finally spilling over his cheeks.
“Claire,” he pleaded, reaching out a trembling hand toward my hem. “Claire, please. You loved me. We built seven years together. You can’t do this to my family. You can’t do this to my mother!”
“Your mother threw my suitcases onto the sidewalk this morning, Ethan,” I said, looking down at him without a shred of pity. “She told me that humiliation was a formal occasion. She told me not to make it embarrassing.”
I leaned down slightly, just close enough so he could see the total absence of warmth in my eyes.
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“I listened to her, Ethan. I didn't make a scene on the sidewalk. I saved it for your eight-hundred-thousand-dollar celebration.”
***
