Chapter 4 - THE STRIPPING OF ASSETS
The sight of Brendan Alcott pinned against the marble column sent a shockwave of terror through the ballroom. Guests backed away, desperate not to be captured in photos with the disgraced executive. Camera flashes erupted across the room as several journalists—invited personally by Brendan to document his “triumph”—frantically snapped pictures of their former golden boy being restrained.
“Get your hands off him!” Claire shrieked, swinging her designer handbag at the guards. “Do you know who we are?! We are the Alcotts! My grandfather built railroads!”
“Your grandfather was a regional depot clerk, Mrs. Alcott,” Ashworth said without looking up from his files. “And unless you wish to be cited for felony assault on bonded security personnel, I suggest you lower your purse.”
Claire froze, her arm trembling in mid-air, the illusion of her royal status crumbling into dust.
Brendan struggled against the heavy grip of the guards, his bowtie askew, his hair falling into his sweaty forehead. “Sydney! Talk to me! You can’t do this to me in front of these people! Think of our family! Think of what we built!”
I walked toward him, my heels clicking deliberately against the polished floor. I stopped just inches away, looking straight into the bloodshot eyes of the man I had slept beside for three thousand six hundred nights.
“*We* didn’t build anything, Brendan,” I whispered, loud enough for Sabrina and Claire to hear. “You were a pilot who thought he owned the plane because he sat in the cockpit. But you forgot who bought the fuel, who owned the runway, and who wrote the flight plan.”
I reached out my hand. “The ring.”
Brendan blinked. “What?”
“The family signet ring,” I said. “The one Arthur McCann gave you on our wedding day. The platinum band set with the McCann crest. Take it off.”
Brendan’s lips quivered. “Sydney, please. Don’t do this. Not like this. Let’s go home and talk.”
“You don't have a home, Brendan,” I replied. “The La Jolla estate was deeded to the McCann Family Trust in 1984. It is leased to Pinnacle Enterprises as an executive perk for the sitting CEO. As of thirty-two minutes ago, your lease was terminated. The local sheriff’s department is currently changing the deadbolts and loading your personal luggage into storage pods.”
Brendan let out a choked sound, somewhere between a sob and a scream.
“Take it off,” I repeated.
With trembling, clumsy fingers, Brendan pulled the heavy platinum band from his finger. When he dropped it into my open palm, his skin was ice cold.
I turned my gaze to Sabrina, who was shrinking into the shadows near the catering table, clutching her crimson collar.
“Ms. Miller,” I said, my tone as sharp as broken ice.
Sabrina flinched. “I… I didn’t know, Sydney. I swear to God I didn’t know! He told me he was the majority owner! He told me you were just an arranged marriage he was divorcing next month!”
“Save your defense for the grand jury,” I said. “Take off the necklace.”
“It’s a gift!” Sabrina cried, tears finally cutting through her heavy makeup. “You can’t steal my property!”
“It was purchased with embezzled municipal development funds,” Ashworth stepped forward, producing a certified asset seizure order signed by an emergency magistrate. “If you refuse to surrender it voluntarily, Officer Vance behind you will place you under arrest for possession of stolen property valued over one million dollars—a Class 2 felony carrying a mandatory five-year minimum.”
Sabrina looked at the burly, uniformed police officer who had just materialized beside Ashworth. With shaking, frantic hands, she unclasped the ruby necklace. The heavy diamonds and deep red stones tumbled into Ashworth’s velvet-lined evidence tray with a dull thud.
“And the dress,” I added quietly.
Sabrina gasped, looking down at her bare shoulders. “What?!”
“Boutique invoice from Rodeo Drive, four weeks ago. Forty-two thousand dollars, billed under Pinnacle’s ‘Corporate Branding Initiatives,’” I said coldly. “I won’t make you strip in public, Sabrina. But you will remain in the hotel management suite until a bailiff arrives with a standard-issue county jumpsuit, at which point the gown will be logged into the receivership inventory.”
Sabrina collapsed onto a nearby chair, burying her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
Brendan looked at the woman he had slapped his wife for, watching her weep without offering a single word of comfort. His illusion of romance, built entirely on corporate expense accounts, had dissolved in less than an hour.
“Escort them out,” I ordered.
The security guards dragged Brendan backward toward the side service exits. Claire scurried behind them like a frightened hen, her heels clicking frantically, screaming obscenities that no one listened to anymore.
I turned back to the room. Three hundred of the most powerful people in the state stood frozen, watching me.
I picked up Brendan’s abandoned glass of champagne from the service tray, held it high beneath the chandelier, and smiled.
May you like
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said with effortless grace. “Let’s continue the party. Tomorrow morning at eight, the real work begins.”
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