Chapter 4 - House of Cards
The fallout was spectacular.
When you build your entire life on borrowed money and stolen prestige, gravity is a ruthless enemy.
By the end of the week, Everett’s private accounts were frozen.
My mother’s legal team had filed the papers with lethal precision. Every credit card tied to the Vale trust was deactivated.
The hospital board, horrified by the public spectacle at the winter ball and the sudden financial scandal, placed Everett on indefinite administrative leave.
He was bleeding out socially and professionally, and he knew it.
He tried to come back to our house in the suburbs. The sprawling estate with the wrought-iron gates that my family had owned for four generations.
But when his black Mercedes pulled up to the driveway, the gates did not open.
I watched him on the security cameras from the safety of my study.
He punched the code into the keypad. The red light blinked. Denied.
He punched it again, harder. Denied.
He got out of his car and marched to the intercom, pressing the button furiously.
"Clara! Open the gate! This is my house too!"
I pressed the button on my end. My voice echoed through the speakers out in the cold autumn air.
"It was never your house, Everett. It belongs to the Vale trust. Check your prenuptial agreement."
"You can't do this to me!" he shouted, kicking the iron bars. "I am your husband!"
"My husband died the moment he put my dead mother’s stole around another woman’s neck," I said calmly.
"Clara, please! Let me in. We can talk about this. I'm sorry, okay? I made a mistake!"
"A mistake is forgetting an anniversary," I replied. "What you did was an assassination of my dignity. And I am simply returning the favor."
I cut the intercom off.
On the screen, I watched him scream into the silent speaker. I watched him kick his tires. I watched him pull out his cell phone, his hands shaking.
He was calling Celeste. I knew he was.
But I also knew something about women who steal other people’s husbands.
They don't want the man. They want the lifestyle.
And Everett Harlow no longer had a lifestyle to offer.
That evening, Arthur came over for tea. We sat in the drawing room, the fire crackling in the hearth.
"He’s staying at a cheap motel near the interstate," Arthur reported, sipping his Earl Grey. "Celeste Monroe refused to let him into her apartment."
I smiled into my cup. "Shocking."
"She told him she needed 'space to process the trauma' of the last few days," Arthur chuckled. "It seems vintage glamour loses its appeal when the bank accounts are frozen."
"He will fight the divorce," I said, looking into the fire. "He won't let go of the money that easily."
"Let him fight," Arthur said, his silver cane resting against his chair. "He has no teeth left, Clara. Eleanor made sure of that. The only question now is how far you want to push him."
I looked at the portrait of my mother hanging above the fireplace.
May you like
She looked fierce. She looked victorious.
"All the way," I said. "I want him to remember my mother's name for the rest of his life."
