Chapter 3 - The Aftermath in the Penthouse
By midnight, the Drake Hotel gala was the top trending topic on every social media platform in the world. #SullivanTwins, #The30DollarHeirs, and #DeadbeatBillionaire had collectively amassed over four hundred million impressions on TikTok, X, and Instagram. Memes of Ethan standing on stage looking like a deer caught in high beams were circulating across news outlets from Tokyo to London.
Lucas, the twins, and I sat in the sprawling suite of the Four Seasons overlooking Lake Michigan, sipping hot cocoa while the room service cart sat emptied.
""Sullivan Group’s stock plunged four percent in overnight Asian trading,"" Lucas reported, tapping his tablet screen with a satisfied grin. ""The board of directors called an emergency 2:00 AM executive session. Ethan’s pristine image as the family-oriented visionary is completely torched. The board hates instability, and right now, Sullivan Group looks like a daytime soap opera.""
Noah was sitting on the leather sofa with his laptop open, studying financial tickers. ""A four percent drop represents approximately two hundred and forty million dollars in market capitalization,"" he muttered without looking up. ""Mom, if we had bought put options on Sullivan Group before walking through those doors, my startup fund would already be fully capitalized.""
I rubbed my temples, half-laughing and half-exhausted. ""Noah, you are ten years old. Go to sleep.""
""I am an equity partner in this operation,"" Noah insisted, taking a calm sip of whole milk. ""Ten percent of the settlement, remember?""
A sudden, sharp knock banged on our penthouse door.
Lucas stood up, gesturing for us to stay back. He peered through the security peephole, then sighed heavily. ""It’s him. Alone. No security, no PR team.""
I walked over and nodded. ""Let him in.""
The heavy door swung open. Ethan stepped inside, and for the first time in a decade, I saw him stripped of every ounce of corporate arrogance. His bow tie was undone, hanging loosely around his unbuttoned collar. His designer jacket was crumpled, his eyes bloodshot and swollen from crying.
He looked at me, then at the twins, who had stopped what they were doing to watch him.
""Claire,"" Ethan croaked, taking off his jacket and holding it clumsily in his hands. ""Please. I didn't know. Swear to God on my father’s grave, I had no idea about the twins.""
""You knew you threw thirty dollars at your wife and locked the door behind you,"" I said coldly, walking over to the window and looking down at the glittering city below. ""Did you think I vanished into thin air? Did you ever once search for me?""
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""I thought you hated me!"" Ethan cried out, his voice cracking with agony. ""My mother told me you took a buyout from her, told me you laughed and said you were sick of living in poverty with a struggling architect! She handed me a signed letter supposedly from you saying I was pathetic and that you were moving to California with an old boyfriend!""
Noah chimed in from the couch. ""A rudimentary handwriting analysis would have disproven that in four minutes, Dad. You're supposedly a genius CEO, yet you got outsmarted by your own mother's forgery?""
