Chapter 8 - The Price of Treachery
Marcus stood up slowly, the realization settling into his bones that there was no charm, no lie, no tearful plea that would ever pierce the steel armor of Emily Vance again.
""What do you want from me?"" he whispered, his voice dead.
""I don't want anything from you, Marcus. The court has already decided what happens next.""
Arthur Sterling stepped into the room, holding a slender blue folder containing the signed divorce decree from the New York Supreme Court.
""Under the terms of your prenuptial agreement,"" Arthur said, handing him the pen, ""all marital assets acquired through Vance-guaranteed capital revert entirely to Emily Vance. In exchange for your signature today and your full cooperation with the SEC investigation into Fund I, Emily has agreed not to pursue criminal embezzlement charges regarding the offshore accounts.""
Marcus looked at the document. His signature would strip him of his remaining partnership points, his claim to the Park Avenue lease, his country club memberships, and his reputation.
""And if I refuse to sign?"" Marcus croaked.
""Then two FBI agents waiting outside the museum will take you into federal custody for wire fraud and misappropriation of client assets,"" Arthur replied mildly. ""You will spend your child's first five years in a federal correctional facility in Otisville.""
Marcus stared at the papers. His hand shook so violently that the first stroke of the pen tore slightly into the paper. He signed his name: Marcus Thorne.
He dropped the Montblanc pen onto the desk. It rolled, leaving a small black ink stain on the blotter.
""I have nothing left,"" Marcus muttered, staring at the floor. ""Not a single dollar.""
""You have your life, Marcus,"" I told him, picking up my sable brush again. ""Which is considerably more than you intended to leave me with when you handed Isabella that microphone.""
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He didn't say another word. He turned, his shoulders slumped, and shuffled past the security guards out into the cold New York drizzle.
I looked back down at the Florentine panel before me. The gold leaf on the Madonna’s halo caught the overhead lamp, brilliant, unbroken, and purified of all dirt. For the first time in five years, the air in the room felt light enough to breathe.
