Chapter 2 - The Empty House on Park Avenue
The silence inside our four-bedroom Park Avenue apartment was suffocating.
I walked through the foyer, past the framed photographs of our trip to Tuscany, our wedding in the Hamptons, and our college graduations. Every glossy print felt like a forged masterpiece hung in an empty museum.
Nathan had taken three large suitcases containing his designer suits, his custom leather shoes, and his luxury watch collection.
He had left behind an empty closet with swaying wooden hangers and a handwritten note on my nightstand that read: I will count every second until I hold you again, my love.
I picked up the note, walked into the kitchen, struck a match, and dropped the paper into the stainless-steel sink, watching the ashes curl and burn to dust.
At noon, a soft chime sounded at the front door.
I opened it to find Arthur Vance, accompanied by two forensic accountants carrying heavy hard-shell laptops and portable scanners.
"Good afternoon, Caroline," Arthur said, stepping inside and hanging his wool overcoat on the brass rack. "We've got forty-eight hours before he realizes his secondary credit cards are dead."
The accountants set up their equipment on the marble dining table, connecting to the federal financial audit database.
"Nathan was remarkably sloppy for a corporate vice president," Arthur chuckled, opening a thick leather docket. "He used his corporate laptop to execute the offshore wire transfers to Breeze Harbor Holdings."
"What does that mean for us?" I asked, pouring four cups of black coffee.
"It means he didn't just commit civil fraud against his spouse," Arthur explained, his eyes glinting behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. "He committed interstate wire fraud and commercial embezzlement. He utilized company servers and misappropriated corporate lines of credit to cover the condo's down payment."
"How much did the Miami condo cost?"
"Two point four million dollars," Arthur answered, turning a laptop screen toward me.
On the screen was a virtual brochure for a penthouse unit at the Continuum in South Beach. A wraparound terrace overlooking the turquoise ocean, private elevator access, and a rooftop plunge pool.
"Your seven hundred and twenty thousand dollars was used as the cash escrow deposit," Arthur continued. "The remaining one point seven million was financed through a high-interest private lender, personally guaranteed by Nathan Prescott using his corporate equity shares as collateral."
A slow, cold smile spread across my face.
Nathan had bet his entire existence on this one reckless gamble. He thought he could steal my inheritance, abandon his real life, father a new son in the Florida sunshine, and leave me holding the bag in New York.
"Arthur," I said, leaning over the table. "Who owns the majority voting shares of Prescott Commercial Development?"
Arthur grinned—a sharp, predatory smile that belonged to an attorney who had dismantled Wall Street titans for three decades.
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"Your father’s family foundation owns sixty percent of the preferred stock, Caroline. Nathan only held twenty percent through his employment vesting schedule."
"Then let's call an emergency board meeting for three o'clock," I said. "It's time to fire my husband."
