HE MOVED HIS WAITRESS MISTRESS INTO MY MANSION ON DAY ONE OF OUR DIVORCE—HE DIDN’T KNOW I ENGINEERED HIS ENTIRE EMPIRE / Chapter 3 / 24

Chapter 3 - The Desperate Pilgrimage

By day twenty-two, the walls were closing in on Julian Mercer.

The financial press had caught wind of the impending stock sell-off. Articles began appearing in the Wall Street Journal and Forbes, speculating on a massive internal liquidity crisis at Mercer Holdings. Investors grew nervous. The stock price dipped by eight percent in a single week.

Julian’s desperate attempts to secure private bridge loans were universally rejected. Nobody wanted to lend a hundred and forty million dollars to a CEO who was currently starring in a tabloid soap opera, bleeding cash to a twenty-two-year-old mistress who was posting pictures of his corporate credit cards on Instagram.

I was sitting on the porch of Pine Hollow, reading a novel, when the sleek, black Bentley pulled up the dirt road.

It looked entirely out of place in the rugged mountain landscape, like a spaceship that had crash-landed in a forest. The driver’s door opened, and Julian stepped out. He was alone. He looked awful. He was wearing a wrinkled designer suit, his tie was loose, and he had dark, heavy bags under his eyes. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in three weeks.

I didn't stand up. I simply marked my page, set the book on my lap, and watched him walk up the wooden steps.

“You’re a hard woman to find,” Julian breathed, stopping at the edge of the porch. He looked around the modest cottage, the vegetable garden, the chickens clucking softly in the pen nearby. A look of genuine confusion crossed his face. “You gave up Hawthorne Manor for this? A shack in the woods?”

“This shack is paid for in cash, Julian,” I said mildly. “And it’s quiet. You have no idea how much I value quiet these days.”

Julian ran a hand through his thinning hair. He stepped closer, trying to deploy the old, charismatic charm that had won me over when we were twenty-one. He offered a sad, vulnerable smile.

“Claire, look at me,” he said softly. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. I was going through a mid-life crisis, the pressure of the company, the stress… I lost my mind. But you and I, we’re a team. We built all of this together.”

“You told me you didn't love me, Julian,” I reminded him, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “You moved another woman into my house the day I left. Do not insult my intelligence by pretending this is about us. This is about your money.”

Julian’s face hardened, realizing the charm offensive was useless. He pulled a thick folder from his briefcase and dropped it onto the small wicker table between us.

“I can’t pay you the cash, Claire,” he admitted, his voice cracking with defeat. “If I liquidate the shares, the board will oust me. The company will collapse. I will lose everything.”

“That sounds like a personal problem,” I said, picking up my teacup.

“I have a counter-offer,” Julian said quickly, tapping the folder. “Instead of the one hundred and forty million in cash, I will transfer forty percent of my total equity in Mercer Holdings directly to you. It’s worth more than the cash settlement on paper. You become the second-largest individual shareholder. You get your wealth, and I don't have to trigger a sell-off. It saves the company.”

I looked at the folder. This was exactly what I had been waiting for.

I knew Julian couldn't pay the cash. I had designed the trap specifically to force him into a corner where surrendering equity was his only survival option. But I didn't want just any equity.

“I’ll accept the equity transfer, Julian,” I said slowly, watching the massive wave of relief wash over his exhausted face. “Under one condition.”

“Name it,” he said eagerly. “Anything.”

“The shares you transfer to me must retain full, unmitigated voting rights,” I said, locking my eyes onto his. “And they must be Class A preferred shares.”

Julian hesitated. Giving up forty percent of his voting rights meant he was surrendering absolute control of the board. If I ever allied with the other minority shareholders, I could theoretically override his decisions. But he was blinded by the immediate crisis. He was so desperate to stop the cash hemorrhage that he couldn't see the long-term checkmate.

“Fine,” Julian agreed, exhaling heavily. “Full voting rights. I’ll have the lawyers amend the divorce decree. We sign it on day thirty.”

“Excellent,” I said, finally standing up. “Now get off my porch, Julian. You’re scaring my chickens.”

Julian turned and walked back to his Bentley, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He thought he had survived. He thought he had negotiated a truce that kept him on the throne.

He didn't know that the throne was already rigged with explosives.

Later that night, Margaret brought me a tablet. “You should see this, Claire. Mia just went live on Instagram.”

I tapped the screen. Mia was sitting in the grand foyer of Hawthorne Manor, holding a glass of wine, her makeup smeared, crying hysterically to her followers.

“He’s taking it all away!” Mia sobbed into the camera. “Julian just told me he has to cut my credit cards! He says we have to cancel the yacht trip to Monaco because his psycho ex-wife is stealing his company! He yelled at me! I didn't sign up for a broke, stressed-out old man!”