Chapter 6 - The Fall of Margaret Pembroke
The next morning, at the sprawling Pembroke estate in the gated hills of La Jolla, Margaret woke up late.
She stretched luxuriously under her Egyptian cotton sheets, entirely unaware of the storm that had already swept away her world. She put on her silk robe, walked down the grand marble staircase, and called for the housekeeper to bring her morning espresso.
No one answered.
Frowning, Margaret walked into the grand kitchen. The house was dead quiet. Sitting at the long marble kitchen island was Douglas, staring blankly at a stack of legal notices. Beside him sat two men in dark tailored suits holding clipboards.
"Douglas? What is this?" Margaret demanded, adjusting her robe. "Where are the servants? And who are these people in my home?"
One of the men in suits stepped forward, pulling a gold badge from his jacket. "Mrs. Pembroke, I am the chief asset manager for Vanguard Global Capital. As of midnight, this property, along with all furniture, artwork, and vehicles on the premises, has been seized to satisfy outstanding corporate liabilities."
Margaret laughed nervously, looking at her husband. "Douglas, tell this man to leave! What kind of ridiculous joke is this?"
Douglas didn't look up. His voice was completely devoid of emotion. "It's over, Margaret. Vanguard took the company. We are completely bankrupt."
"What?!" Margaret shrieked, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. "You gave away Pembroke Construction?! Because of that blind woman and her husband?!"
"That blind woman's husband owns Vanguard, Margaret!" Douglas shouted, slamming his hand onto the island. "He owns everything! He owns this house, he owns my cars, he owns our accounts! You threw wine at the wife of one of the most powerful men in North America!"
Margaret stumbled back, clutching her chest. "No... no, Christian will fix this! He's smart, he's—"
"Christian signed the confession papers last night," Douglas interrupted bitterly. "He's currently at the downtown office handing over his keys and corporate laptop. All of our personal accounts are frozen. The IRS is auditing our last seven years of tax filings."
The second man in a suit checked his watch. "Mrs. Pembroke, you have fifteen minutes to pack one suitcase of personal clothing. No jewelry, no designer handbags purchased with company funds, and no art pieces may be removed from the premises. A private security team is waiting outside to inspect your bag before you leave."
"You can't do this to me!" Margaret screamed, tears of rage springing to her eyes. "I am Margaret Pembroke! I am the head of the San Diego Symphony Guild!"
"Not anymore," the asset manager replied coldly. "The Guild was notified of your resignation two hours ago. Now, please head upstairs to pack, or we will have local authorities escort you off the property in your bath robe."
Margaret looked at Douglas, hoping for some spark of protection, but her husband simply stood up, picked up his small duffel bag, and handed her a folded piece of paper.
"What is this?" she whispered.
May you like
"Divorce papers," Douglas said quietly. "I'm moving into a small rental apartment near the job site. You're on your own, Margaret."
Douglas walked out the front door, leaving Margaret standing in the vast, empty foyer of the mansion she had boasted about just yesterday, completely alone.
