Chapter 7 - The Beggar in Designer Rags
Everett Hart had never known the feeling of a polyester blanket.
He had never known the smell of a room that cost forty-nine dollars a night,
where the walls were thin enough to hear the heartbreak of the people next door.
He sat on the edge of the saggy mattress,
his tuxedo trousers stained with the grime of a Jersey sidewalk,
staring at the small,
heavily scratched television.
The news anchor was talking about me.
"Evelyn Hart,
the mastermind behind the Blackstone expansion,
has officially stepped into the light,"
the woman on the screen said.
"The stock price,
after an initial dip,
has soared six percent as investors react to the news of her direct leadership."
Everett let out a choked sob,
the sound of a man realizing he had never been the protagonist of his own story.
He reached for the bedside phone,
a plastic relic from another decade,
and dialed his mother’s number.
"The number you have dialed is no longer in service,"
the mechanical voice informed him.
Patricia had been cut off.
The company-paid cell phone plan had been deactivated at dawn.
He tried Madison’s number next.
"Hello?"
Madison’s voice was sharp,
alert.
"Madison,
it's me,"
Everett pleaded,
his voice cracking.
"I need you to come get me."
"I’m at the Oasis Motel on Route 3."
"I don't have my shoes,
Madison."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
"Everett?"
Madison said,
her voice devoid of the honeyed tones she had used the night before.
"Why are you calling me?"
"I need help!"
he shouted,
the desperation finally bubbling over.
"We have the money in the offshore account!"
"The Vanguard deal!"
"Just get a car and come pick me up!"
"Everett,
you idiot,"
Madison hissed,
her voice trembling with a different kind of fear.
"The accounts are frozen."
"The lawyers contacted me an hour ago."
"They know about the 'consultancy' fees."
"They’re calling it racketeering."
"I’m at the airport,
Everett."
"I’m leaving the country before the subpoenas start flying."
"Wait—"
Everett gasped.
"You can't leave me!"
"I did this for you!"
"You did this because you were arrogant,"
she snapped.
"You thought your wife was a fool,"
"but it turns out you were the only fool in the room."
"Don't call me again."
"If I see you,"
"I'll tell the police you forced me to sign those documents."
The line went dead.
Everett stared at the phone,
the silence of the motel room closing in on him like a tomb.
He had lost his company.
He had lost his home.
He had lost his mistress.
And most importantly,
he had lost the illusion that he was a man of substance.
There was a knock on the door.
He scrambled to his feet,
hope flare-up in his chest for a fleeting second.
Maybe it was Evelyn.
Maybe she was coming to tell him it was all a test.
Maybe she would forgive him if he just knelt low enough.
He pulled open the door.
It wasn't Evelyn.
It was a courier in a gray uniform.
The man looked at Everett’s disheveled appearance with a look of pure,
unadulterated pity.
"Everett Hart?"
the courier asked.
Everett nodded slowly.
The man handed him a thick,
manila envelope.
"From the offices of Hart and Associates."
"Sign here."
Everett signed the electronic pad with a trembling hand.
He ripped the envelope open before the courier had even turned the corner.
Inside were the divorce papers.
Attached to the front was a single sticky note in my handwriting.
"The five thousand dollars is in the form of a prepaid debit card."
"It will be activated once the signature on these papers is verified by my legal team."
"Choose wisely,
Everett."
"The motel bill is due at noon."
Everett looked at the papers,
then at the stained carpet of the room.
He had two choices.
Sign away his life and have enough to eat for a month,
or fight a woman who owned the world and starve by sunset.
May you like
He collapsed back onto the bed,
the papers fluttering to the floor like the leaves of a dying tree.
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