Chapter 5 - Isabella’s Reckoning
Isabella pushed past Marcus, tears streaming down her contoured cheeks, her designer poise completely shattered.
""Emily, listen to me,"" Isabella sobbed, holding her belly with both hands. ""I didn't know! Marcus told me you were cold, that you hated him, that you were holding his career hostage! I’m pregnant with his child. You can’t take his company away—what about the baby? What about my future?""
I looked at Isabella Rossi. For months, she had sent anonymous packages to our apartment—receipts from boutique hotels in St. Barts, photos of Marcus sleeping, mocking notes tucked into industry magazines. She had stood beneath those Pierre chandeliers eight hours ago, smirking in my face, telling me to step aside for the rightful heir.
""Your child will have a trust fund, Isabella,"" I said calmly. ""The Vance Foundation will establish an educational annuity for your baby, fully managed by court-appointed trustees, so your child never has to suffer for their parents' grotesque narcissism. But as for you?""
I gestured to Arthur Sterling, who produced a thin manila folder.
""The penthouse at 432 Park Avenue was leased through Thorne Meridian’s corporate operating account,"" Arthur informed her pleasantly. ""The five-carat ring on your finger was purchased using restricted client capital from Fund I, which constitutes federal grand larceny under SEC regulations. The locks on the apartment are being changed as we speak. If the jewelry is not surrendered to the court receiver within forty-eight hours, an arrest warrant will be issued.""
Isabella turned to Marcus, her eyes wide with hysterical rage. ""You used fund money to buy my ring?! You told me you paid cash from your personal account!""
""Shut up!"" Marcus snarled, his face purple. ""Shut up, you stupid girl!""
""Don't you call me stupid!"" she shrieked, swinging her designer handbag into his chest. ""You ruined my life! You promised me Hamptons estates, private jets, Milan fashion weeks! You're nothing! You’re completely broke!""
""Both of you, off the premises,"" the head of security ordered, stepping between them.
The trading floor staff and junior analysts had begun gathering on the mezzanine balcony above, filming every single second on their smartphones. The golden boy of Wall Street and his glamorous mistress were brawling like alley cats on the marble floor of the very building they claimed to conquer.
""Emily!"" Marcus screamed as security guards grabbed his elbows, escorting him toward the street. ""Emily, you can't do this! I am Thorne Meridian! Without me, the institutional investors will pull every dollar! The fund will die!""
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I stood motionless, watching him get dragged toward the glass doors into the rainy morning light.
""The fund won't die, Marcus,"" I replied quietly. ""Because as of nine o'clock, the name on the door isn't Thorne Meridian anymore. It's Vance Capital. And the investors are already calling us back.""
