Chapter 9 - THE AFTERMATH AND THE CLEANUP: THE MANSION REPOSSESSED
By two o'clock in the morning, the glittering chaos of the National Convention Center gala had faded into a cold, quiet reality. The high-society guests had long since departed, whispering excitedly about the most explosive corporate and marital scandal in Manhattan history. The media outlets were already publishing breaking news alerts across every major financial news network, featuring side-by-side photos of Julian kneeling on the red carpet and my official corporate portrait as the sole Chairwoman of Sterling Investment Group.
I rode the private executive elevator back up into the subterranean levels of the estate, then walked up through the wine cellar and into the grand foyer of the mansion.
The house was deathly quiet.
When the front door swung open, I found Evelyn and Chloe huddled in the formal drawing room like two shipwreck survivors washed ashore on a desolate island. Their expensive designer gowns were wrinkled, their hair was disheveled, and the air of arrogant entitlement that had defined them for years was completely gone.
Evelyn looked up as I walked into the room, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying. The glittering gold gown she wore now looked absurdly out of place in the silent, tense room.
“Clara...” Evelyn whispered, her voice cracking, completely devoid of its former venom. “Please... talk to us. Julian is outside in his car. He’s... he’s completely broken. The police escorted him out of his office building an hour ago. They’re locking up everything.”
I stopped near the doorway, looking down at the woman who had spent eight years treating me like a neighborhood temp and a servant.
“Your son’s office building doesn't belong to him, Evelyn,” I said calmly. “Neither does this mansion. The deed to this estate, along with every single asset your family currently relies upon, is registered exclusively under Sterling Investment Group holdings.”
Chloe burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. “Where are we supposed to go? What are we going to do? We don’t have any money!”
“You have exactly what Julian told me I had when I met him,” I replied without a trace of malice, simply stating a factual reality. “You can go back to where you started. Live above a cramped print shop. Wear thrift-store clothes. Drive a rusted-out sedan. You’ll find out very quickly whether you are truly capable of surviving on your own merits.”
Just then, the front doors pushed open slowly, and Julian dragged himself into the foyer.
He looked ten years older than he had that evening. His tuxedo jacket was torn at the shoulder, his tie was gone, and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and rain. He looked like a man who had fallen from the summit of Everest straight down into the Mariana Trench.
He stopped a few feet away from me, his eyes bloodshot, hollow, and filled with a profound, soul-crushing despair.
“Was it... was it all a game to you?” Julian whispered, his voice trembling violently. “Every single day we spent together... did you ever love me at all?”
I met his gaze, my expression steady and unyielding.
“I loved the man I thought you were, Julian,” I answered quietly. “A man of integrity, humility, and genuine ambition. But you killed that man yourself long before I ever stepped foot in this elevator.”
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I turned away from him, walking toward the grand staircase that led up to my private quarters.
“The movers will be here at eight o'lock tomorrow morning to clear your personal belongings,” I added over my shoulder without breaking stride. “Don't be late.”
