Chapter 3 - The Morning The Gold Cards Died
The morning sunlight broke over the ocean, casting a pale glow across the master suite of Whitecliff House.
Grant Mercer rolled over in bed, his head pounding from three double scotches he had consumed after Madison drove away.
The other side of the bed was empty.
Sloane Whitaker was standing by the panoramic window, wearing her trench coat and holding a cold cup of coffee.
Her face was drawn, her eyes ringed with dark circles.
"She took everything that mattered, Grant," Sloane said, breaking the silence.
Grant sat up, rubbing his temples with irritation.
"She took three dresses and an old folder, Sloane."
"Stop acting like the sky is falling."
"You don't understand women like Madison Hale," Sloane retorted, turning toward him.
"She didn't cry."
"She didn't throw a lamp."
"She didn't even raise her voice."
"That isn't heartbreak, Grant; that is premeditated calculation."
Grant waved his hand dismissively as he stepped onto the hardwood floor.
"Madison comes from old money."
"Old money avoids public scenes."
"She’ll spend the weekend sulking at some boutique hotel in the city, her lawyer will send an angry demand letter on Monday, and we’ll negotiate a quiet payout."
"What about my firm’s contract?" Sloane asked, her voice tight.
"Whitaker Communications handles your public relations."
"If this leaks to the press, my agency gets dragged through the mud."
"Nothing is leaking," Grant snapped, walking toward the bathroom.
"I pay the press, Sloane."
"I build the tallest towers in this city."
"Now go back to your apartment, take a shower, and meet me at the office at ten."
Grant shaved, put on his custom charcoal suit, and descended the grand staircase.
He walked into the kitchen, where his housekeeper, Maria, was wiping down the granite countertops in uncomfortable silence.
Maria had seen Sloane leaving through the side entrance.
She did not offer her usual warm greeting.
Grant ignored the tension, grabbed his car keys, and walked out to his Mercedes.
On the drive toward downtown Boston, he felt a strange sense of relief washing over him.
The lie was finally over.
For nearly two years, he had lived between two lives, exhausted by the sneaking around.
Now the cards were on the table.
He would give Madison the coastal house, pay her a generous monthly allowance, and finally take Sloane to corporate galas without looking over his shoulder.
He pulled up to his favorite private café on Newbury Street.
He ordered his usual double espresso and a croissant, handing the cashier his black corporate Amex card.
The young barista swiped the card.
A red flash blinked on the terminal.
"Try it again," Grant said smoothly.
"The magnetic strip has been acting up."
The barista swiped it a second time.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mercer, it says 'Card Issuer Declined.'"
Grant gave an amused, condescending sigh.
"Swipe my personal Visa, then."
He handed her a sapphire-colored personal card.
The machine beeped twice with a harsh, high-pitched rejection chime.
"Declined again, sir."
A customer behind him cleared his throat in line.
Grant felt a prickle of heat rise along the back of his neck.
"Check your machine," Grant said, his voice dropping into a threatening register.
"That card has a three-hundred-thousand-dollar limit."
"The system is working fine, sir," the barista replied nervously.
"The terminal specifically says 'Account Suspended by Pledging Authority.'"
Grant froze.
He pulled three crisp hundred-dollar bills from his leather money clip, tossed them onto the counter without waiting for change, and walked swiftly back to his car.
He slammed the door, pulled out his smartphone, and tapped the speed dial for his Chief Financial Officer.
"David, why are my corporate accounts locked?" Grant demanded before the other man could speak.
"Grant, where the hell are you?"
David’s voice sounded frayed, breathless, and terrified.
"I’m in my car on Newbury."
"Get up to the forty-second floor right now," David whispered frantically.
"Representatives from Boston Commercial Trust and JPMorgan are sitting in our main conference room."
"What are they doing in my office on a Saturday morning?"
"They aren't here for a friendly visit, Grant."
"They just served us with an emergency notice of asset impoundment."
"They’ve frozen the construction payroll for Mercer Tower."
Grant felt the blood drain from his face until his lips went numb.
"On what legal grounds?"
"On the grounds of Clause 9B of the Hale Heritage Guarantee," David said, his voice cracking.
"Your wife’s attorney filed the paperwork at midnight."
"Every single dollar backing Mercer Development has just been pulled back into Eleanor Hale’s vault."
Grant dropped the phone into his lap as his hands began to shake violently against the steering wheel.
He finally remembered the olive-green folder Madison had taken from the safe.
May you like
The woman who had walked out with one suitcase had not gone to sulk.
She had just pulled the foundation stones out from under his entire life.
