Chapter 8 - The Price of Arrogance
“Beg for what, Preston?” I asked, leaning against the bench with my arms crossed over my chest.
He took a step forward, his hands trembling as he pulled a battered leather notebook from his pocket. “The bank took our house on Pelican Bay, Evelyn. My mother... she had a minor breakdown when the marshals served the eviction notice. She’s staying in a studio apartment in Stamford with my aunt. My father is under formal investigation by the SEC for using Vanguard Atlantic commercial loans to pay off his personal club memberships.”
He looked at me with wild, red-rimmed eyes. “We have nothing left. My credit score is destroyed. The partners at my old legal firm won’t even take my phone calls because they don't want their brand associated with the scandal. I have eighty-four dollars in my checking account, Evelyn. Eighty-four dollars!”
“And what did you expect when you decided to discard me like an outdated piece of furniture?” I replied, my voice steady, devoid of anger, which seemed to terrify him more than any shout could have. “You didn't just serve me divorce papers, Preston. You deliberately planned it for Christmas Eve. You gathered your parents and your cousins so that you could turn my public humiliation into an appetizer before dessert.”
“It was my father!” Preston cried desperately, taking another step before Caleb shifted his weight, his broad frame instantly blocking the path. Preston stopped short, trembling. “My father told me that if I wanted the donor network, I needed an establishment wife! He told me you were holding me back, that your background would be an easy target for the opposition press! I was weak, Evelyn! I was stupid! I was terrified of failing him!”
“You were not terrified of failing him, Preston,” I said, looking right through him. “You were terrified of being ordinary. You wanted the power, the applause, the private clubs, and the senator’s title. You were perfectly willing to crush a human being who loved you unconditionally if it meant you could climb one rung higher on a ladder built out of other people’s money.”
Preston dropped his head, tears dripping off his jaw onto the sawdust floor. “Please... just release the freeze on my father’s secondary account. Just enough for my mother to keep a decent two-bedroom flat. We don't need the fortune, Evelyn. Just a bridge. If you ever felt anything for me... if any part of our three years meant anything to you... please don't let them end up in state housing.”
I looked at him in silence for a long time. The sound of the wind whipping off the ocean battered against the double-paned windows.
“Your mother will not be in state housing,” I said quietly.
Preston looked up, a glimmer of desperate hope flashing across his face. “You’ll help her?”
“Highmont Trust has already established a modest, non-transferable life annuity for Victoria Rowan,” I stated. “It provides a quiet, clean cottage in New Hampshire, comprehensive health coverage, and a grocery allowance. Exactly what thousands of retired teachers and nurses live on comfortably every single day. She will not starve. But she will never own another diamond, she will never attend another charity gala at The Alder Room, and she will never again treat another working woman as if she were dirt beneath her designer heels.”
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Preston blinked, stunned. “And... and my father? What about me?”
“Your father must face the regulatory investigations he created through his own fraud,” I said coldly. “The law will handle Charles. And as for you, Preston... your debt to me was settled the second I signed that petition.”
