Chapter 8 - The Clean Sweep
(Approx. 1500 words)
Six months after the divorce was finalized, the city had completely forgotten the name Weston Prescott.
Prescott Enterprise was completely rebranded as Sterling Logistics North America. Under new, competent leadership, the company's regional workforce doubled, employee wages were raised by thirty percent, and the old corporate culture of toxic arrogance was thoroughly erased.
Inside the sprawling penthousesuite of the new Sterling Tower, I stood looking out over the city skyline as the evening sun set the sky on fire with shades of gold and deep violet.
Arthur stepped into the office, holding a slim leather folder.
"Final reports on the remaining matters, Chairwoman," Arthur said respectfully.
"Go ahead," I replied, sipping a cold glass of sparkling water.
"Claudia Prescott's foreclosure on her suburban property was executed last week," Arthur reported. "She has relocated to a small retirement home in the northern province funded by her sister. Her social standing in the city has vanished entirely."
I nodded slowly. Claudia had spent decades treating everyone around her like servant class. Experiencing life among ordinary people was the most fitting lesson she could ever receive.
"And Victoria Vance?" I asked.
"Victoria completed her plea bargain with federal prosecutors yesterday," Arthur said. "She was forced to surrender her financial licenses permanently and pay a five-million-dollar fine. She is currently working as a mid-level corporate consultant for a third-tier real estate firm in Chicago. She will never operate in high finance again."
"And Weston?"
Arthur paused for a moment, selecting his words carefully.
"Weston tried to apply for several executive management roles across five different states. However, due to the public nature of his fraud investigation and the viral press coverage from the gala, no firm will risk hiring him. He currently works as an entry-level logistics clerk at a third-party shipping warehouse on the docks."
I turned around to face Arthur. "A clerk?"
"Yes, Ma'am," Arthur smiled faintly. "He spends ten hours a day managing inventory manifests, lifting wooden crates, and reporting to a twenty-four-year-old regional supervisor. The salary is forty-two thousand dollars a year."
I looked out at the vast skyline of the city—a city where Weston had once spent thousands of dollars on single dinners while bragging about his social polish.
He was now doing the honest, humble work he had spent his whole life despising. He was finally on the floor, doing the labor he thought was beneath him.
"Does he know who owns the dock warehouse?" I asked quietly.
"No," Arthur replied. "We purchased the port logistics authority through an offshore holding company three months ago. He has no idea that every hour of overtime he works goes directly toward paying off his debt to your syndicate."
"Keep it that way," I said softly. "Let him earn his living."
Arthur handed me a gold-embossed invitation card. "On a more pleasant note, Ma'am... the Global Finance Council has voted unanimously to name you Person of the Year. The annual International Economic Summit is taking place in Geneva next month. They have formally requested that you deliver the opening keynote speech."
I took the gold invitation, feeling the crisp, rich texture beneath my fingertips.
Eight years ago, I had almost surrendered my identity to fit inside a narrow, cruel box built by a man who didn't appreciate my worth. I had allowed myself to believe that staying quiet and small was the only way to keep peace in a home.
May you like
Never again.
"Accept the invitation, Arthur," I said, a proud, radiant smile filling my face. "And book the suite at the President Wilson Hotel. It’s time to show the world what real power looks like."
