Chapter 5 - Madison’s True Colors
By Wednesday afternoon, the pressure cooker of financial ruin began to fracture the Prescott-Vance marriage from the inside out.
Private investigators—retained by Arthur Miller to monitor our legal adversaries—sent us a comprehensive audio and video report taken from the lobby of the cheap highway motel where Trevor and Madison were now staying.
The footage, captured discreetly on a smartphone by an operative sitting three tables away in the motel’s dreary breakfast lounge, was a masterpiece of human collapse.
Madison Prescott—now Madison Vance—was no longer wearing designer white lace. She was wearing an oversized hoodie, sweatpants, and no makeup, her hair tied up in a messy, greasy bun. She was screaming at Trevor across a sticky laminate table while two lukewarm coffees sat untouched between them.
“What do you mean his lawyers won't take our calls?!” Madison shrieked, her voice carrying across the entire room. “Your father is a billionaire! He can't just cut you off because I shoved an old lady into some flowers!”
“Lower your voice, Madison!” Trevor hissed back, looking around nervously. “My father doesn't care! He cut off my credit cards, he froze my business accounts, and he just bankrupted your dad’s company in twenty-four hours! We have no money!”
“Then go back to him! Beg him! Cry! Do whatever you have to do!”
“I went to his hotel this morning! He locked the door in my face!”
Madison slammed her hand down on the table so hard her coffee cup rattled. “I didn't marry a pauper, Trevor! You promised me a penthouse, a Porsche, and a trust fund that would set us up for life! If I wanted to live in a roach-infested motel off the interstate, I could have stayed with my ex-boyfriend!”
Trevor went completely pale. “Your... your ex-boyfriend?”
“That’s right!” Madison yelled, standing up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the linoleum. “At least he had his own apartment! You’re nothing without your daddy! You’re just a pathetic, spineless little boy!”
She grabbed her designer leather handbag—the only luxury item she had managed to salvage—and stormed out of the lounge, leaving Trevor sitting alone at the table with his head in his hands.
Arthur Miller forwarded the video clip to my phone with a single text message: Should we share this with Trevor’s divorce lawyer?
May you like
I replied immediately: Keep it in reserve. Let them tear each other to pieces first.
The speed at which Madison’s affection dissolved into venom proved everything I had suspected about her from the moment she walked into our lives. She hadn't loved Trevor; she had loved the lifestyle I provided. And the moment the fountain dried up, she was ready to throw him into the nearest dumpster.
