Chapter 5 - The Penthouse Eviction
The elevator opened directly into the private foyer of our Tribeca penthouse at five o'clock that evening. The home was five thousand square feet of polished limestone, floor-to-ceiling glass, and minimalist Italian furniture—spaces I had spent three months curating while Owen was busy pretending to attend business conferences in California.
When I stepped into the living room, Owen was there.
He had torn through the walk-in closets. Three massive leather duffel bags sat on the floor, bulging with designer suits, cashmere sweaters, and high-end watches. Empty coat hangers were scattered across the bespoke wool rug. A half-empty bottle of Macallan 18 sat on the marble kitchen island alongside a glass with melting ice cubes.
Owen spun around when he heard my heels click against the limestone. His hair was disheveled, his tie was undone, and his eyes were bloodshot and wild.
"You had security escort me out of my own building like a shoplifter," he said, his voice trembling with a toxic blend of shame and fury. "Forty people watched me get loaded into an unmarked police car, Isabo! Forty people!"
"You weren't an executive being escorted out, Owen," I said, setting my keys on the counter. "You were an embezzler being separated from the crime scene. You brought that disgrace on yourself."
"I built that company!" he screamed, stepping toward me, his hands clenched into fists. "I put my name on the building! I made people care about those developments! You think Arthur Vance would have given you five minutes without my charm? You're a spreadsheet, Isabo! You're cold, clinical, and boring! No one wants to buy a luxury lifestyle from a woman who spends her Friday nights analyzing concrete density reports!"
"And yet," I said, not moving an inch, "it was my cold, clinical spreadsheets that secured the financing, while your charm just brought two federal agents to your door."
Owen let out a ragged, defeated laugh, slumping against the kitchen counter. "You think you've won, don't you? You think you're going to strip me of everything, take the company, take the glory, and leave me with nothing."
"I don't think I've won, Owen. I simply stopped allowing you to steal."
He looked at his duffel bags, then back at me. He tried to muster that old, confident smirk, but his mouth twitched pathetically. "I don't need you. I don't need your father's money. Richard Voss has more liquid capital than Gerard could dream of. Tatum and I are leaving for London by the end of the week. We’ll launch our own fund."
I took a sip of water from a glass on the counter. "Richard Voss called me two hours ago."
Owen froze. "What?"
"He ordered Tatum to wire back every single penny of the four hundred and eighty thousand dollars you funneled to her fake consulting firm to save her from a federal grand jury indictment. And he informed me that if you show up within fifty yards of his building or his daughter ever again, he will have his private security team break your legs and throw you into the East River."
Owen’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The last remaining illusion—that he was leaving me for a younger, wealthier socialite who adored his brilliance—shattered into dust before his eyes.
"Tatum... Tatum wouldn't do that," he whispered. "She loves me. She stood by me."
"Tatum loved the private charters, the Aspen chalets, and the promise of a ninety-million-dollar developer husband," I said calmly. "The moment the money turned into a subpoena, you became an expensive liability. Did you really believe she saw you as a soulmate? To her, Owen, you were just a tool to defy her father. And now, you're just collateral damage."
As if on cue, two building security guards appeared in the private elevator vestibule, accompanied by a locksmith carrying a heavy toolkit.
"Mr. Callaway," the head of security said respectfully. "Under the terms of the proprietary lease held by the Fontaine Family Living Trust, your residency authorization has been revoked. We have been instructed to escort you to the service concourse."
Owen looked around the penthouse—at the contemporary art on the walls, the sweeping view of the Hudson River at sunset, the life of effortless luxury he had assumed was his birthright.
May you like
"Isabo, please," he pleaded, his voice breaking into a pathetic whimper. "Where am I supposed to go? My credit cards don't work. The banks froze my personal line. I have nowhere to sleep tonight."
"Tatum suggested a condo in the suburbs," I said, looking out toward the river. "Take your duffel bags, Owen. Your time in the penthouse has expired."
