Chapter 4 - The Fall of the House of Vance
By nightfall, the high-society circles of the city were buzzing with the scandal. The fall of Ashford Developments wasn't just a corporate bankruptcy; it was a public execution.
Garrick spent four hours sitting in the lobby of a mid-tier hotel three towns over. He couldn't check in. His personal American Express Centurion card was declined at the front desk, accompanied by a cold, pitying look from the receptionist. He had tried three different cards from his wallet—cards he had used for years to book first-class flights and buy five-figure watches—and every single one returned the same mechanical error code: ACCOUNT FROZEN / REFER TO ISSUER.
He was sitting on a faux-leather couch in the lobby, his phone on three percent battery, when Miriam walked through the sliding glass doors.
She looked unrecognizable. Her designer coat was crumpled, her hair was unwashed, and she was dragging two cheap, oversized plastic suitcases behind her—the kind sold at late-night discount stores. She had been dropped off by a ride-share that she had paid for with the last $80 of physical cash in her purse.
"Garrick," she gasped, collapsing onto the sofa next to him, her voice cracking with exhaustion and horror. "Garrick, do something! The neighbors saw everything! They were recording me on their phones! They took the furniture, Garrick! They took the rugs! They took the painting of your father!"
Garrick didn't look at her. He stared blankly at the wall across the lobby, his hands clasped tightly between his knees.
"I don't have any money, Mom," he said softly. His tone was stripped of all its usual arrogance, reduced to a flat, dead whisper.
"What do you mean you don't have money?!" Miriam almost shrieked, clutching his arm. "Call the bank! Call Marcus! Tell them to wire $50,000 from the offshore account!"
"There is no offshore account, Mom!" Garrick snapped, turning his hollow, dark-circled eyes toward her. "Every cent in that account was funded through Apex Capital’s revolving trust! Marcus called me twenty minutes ago before he turned himself in to the federal prosecutors with his lawyer. He surrendered all company ledgers. The District Attorney has opened a criminal investigation into me for corporate wire fraud and tax evasion."
Miriam’s face drained of what little color it had left. "Criminal... criminal charges? But you're a Vance! You're the president of Ashford!"
"There is no Ashford!" Garrick roared, slamming his fist against his knee. "Ashford was a parasite living on Elena’s family trust! Everything—this suit, your shoes, the house, the cars, the wine you drank—it was all her! She wasn't just paying for the house, Mom. She was holding up the whole damn sky, and we kicked her until she walked away!"
Miriam sat back, her mouth hanging open. For the first time in her life, the illusion of her aristocratic existence had shattered into dust. She wasn't an elite matriarch; she was a destitute woman sitting in a two-star hotel lobby with two plastic suitcases.
At that moment, Garrick’s phone buzzed once—a final vibration before the battery died completely.
It was a text message from an unknown number, but he knew immediately who sent it.
“The first hearing for the divorce, total asset division, and criminal restitution is set for Friday at 9:00 AM. Don’t be late, Garrick. Abigail doesn’t like to wait.”
While Garrick and Miriam were facing the cold reality of their newfound poverty, I was standing on the glass balcony of my penthouse apartment overlooking the city skyline.
The air was crisp, carry the distant hum of traffic below. Abigail walked out onto the balcony, holding two glasses of chilled white wine. She handed one to me and leaned against the railing.
"The District Attorney just accepted the forensic audit findings," Abigail said, taking a sip. "Garrick’s misuse of corporate funds wasn't just poor management; it crossed into grand larceny because he falsified loan documents stating he had sole authority over the Apex trust funds."
"Will he serve time?" I asked quietly.
"If he takes a plea deal? Three to five years," Abigail replied smoothly. "If he goes to trial with a public defender—because he certainly can't afford a real defense attorney—he’s looking at seven to ten."
I swirled the wine in my glass, watching the city lights twinkle in the dark.
"Do you feel relieved?" Abigail asked, glancing at me with genuine curiosity.
May you like
"I feel clear," I answered. "For three years, I thought I was making a sacrifice for love. I thought if I stayed quiet, supported Garrick’s dreams, and let his mother feel important, eventually they would see me as a person. But some people don't want a partner, Abigail. They want a pedestal built out of someone else's labor."
"Well," Abigail smiled, raising her glass to mine, "his pedestal just collapsed. And on Friday, we sweep up the dust."
