Chapter 1 - The Sound of a Crumbling Empire
The crystal chandeliers of the Mayfair Grand seemed to dim as the sheer magnitude of Naomi’s words settled over the ballroom. Edward Lang, the vice chairman of Summit Ridge Bank, did not look at Preston with the deferential respect he usually reserved for a billionaire client. He looked at him like a liability.
"Mr. Hale," Edward said, his voice carrying effortlessly in the dead-silent room, "fraudulent misrepresentation of a financial backer is a federal offense. Summit Ridge is freezing all associated accounts pending a full forensic audit. The Westbridge deal is dead."
Preston’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The polished, untouchable titan of industry had vanished, replaced by a terrified man who had just watched his entire life's work evaporate.
Sloane, still clutching the microphone, finally seemed to understand that the atmosphere had shifted. She looked from Preston to the leather portfolio on the table, her blood-red satin dress suddenly looking less like a victory gown and more like a massive, glaring target. "Preston, what are they talking about?" she demanded, her voice shrill. "Tell them to leave!"
"Shut up, Sloane," Preston hissed, his eyes wide and frantic. It was the first time he had ever spoken to her with anything other than indulgent adoration, and the shock on her face was instantaneous. He turned back to me, his hands actually shaking. "Eleanor, please. We can talk about this. I’ll fire her. I’ll send her away tonight. Just call Mason off. If you pull the guarantee, Hale Strategic will be insolvent by Monday."
"You were insolvent the moment you forgot whose money built you," I replied evenly.
I looked at Sloane, whose face had crumpled into a mask of pure panic. She had wanted to steal a king, but she hadn't realized that I owned the castle, the throne, and the very ground he walked on. I picked up my clutch from the table, smoothing the skirt of my navy gown.
May you like
"I believe you announced to the room that he belongs to you now, Sloane," I said, my voice perfectly steady and carrying over the whispers of six hundred guests. "He’s all yours. I hope you enjoy paying his legal fees."
I turned and walked out of the ballroom, flanked by my brother and my legal team. The heavy oak doors swung shut behind us, cutting off the sound of the ensuing chaos, the furious shouting of investors, and the sudden, frantic flashing of paparazzi cameras. The night air of New York had never felt so impossibly clean.
