Chapter 7 - The Knock on the Glass
Three hours later, the private security intercom in the penthouse chimed.
"Mrs. Prescott," the head of building security announced through the speaker. "Mr. Nathan Prescott and Miss Brooke Ellery are at the front gate. He is shouting that he owns this unit and demanding to be let up."
I took a slow sip of my iced water, standing on the balcony. "Let them up, Frank. But station two guards outside the double doors."
"Right away, ma'am."
Five minutes later, the private elevator chimed, and the heavy double doors flew open.
Nathan burst into the foyer, looking completely unhinged.
His bespoke navy suit was soaked with sweat and wrinkled from sitting on airport benches. His silk tie was gone, his collar open, and his eyes bloodshot with wild, frantic desperation.
Brooke trailed behind him, dragging her small canvas bag, her makeup smeared across her tear-stained cheeks, looking utterly humiliated.
When Nathan saw me sitting comfortably on the white sectional sofa, wearing my linen suit, reading an architecture magazine, he stopped in his tracks as if he had been struck by lightning.
"Caroline...?" he choked out, his voice cracking into a high, broken pitch. "How... how are you here?!"
"I took a private jet, Nathan," I answered smoothly, setting my magazine on the glass coffee table. "It's much faster than Delta commercial."
Nathan staggered forward, his hands outstretched in an instinctive, pathetic plea. "Caroline, baby, listen to me! This is a catastrophic misunderstanding! Brooke is my client! I was escorting her to Florida because of a medical emergency with her pregnancy!"
Brooke let out a sharp, hysterical shriek. "A client?! Nathan, you bastard! Tell her the truth! Tell her this is your baby!"
Nathan spun around, his face purple with rage. "Shut your mouth, you stupid girl! I was trying to help you!"
"Stop screaming, Nathan," I said, my voice dropping into an icy, razor-sharp whisper that made both of them freeze. "You're embarrassing yourself in front of my staff."
Nathan turned back to me, dropping to his knees on the travertine floor, tears finally bursting from his eyes, splashing onto his wrinkled trousers.
"Caroline... please," he sobbed, crawling toward the coffee table until my private security guard stepped between us, resting a hand on his holster. "I made a mistake! A terrible, stupid, midlife mistake! I was stressed about the company, about turning forty... I didn't know what I was doing!"
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"You knew what you were doing when you transferred seven hundred and twenty thousand dollars of my dead grandmother's money, Nathan," I said, looking down at him with utter disgust. "You knew what you were doing when you kissed my forehead at JFK and told me you were going to Toronto for our future."
Nathan buried his face in his hands, weeping with the raw, agonizing sorrow of a man who realized that his gilded cage had slammed shut from the outside.
