Chapter 4 - The Predator's Counter-Attack
By Monday morning, the shockwaves from the wedding reception had already rippled through the upper echelons of the city's social elite. Gossip in high society traveled faster than fiber optics, and by 9:00 AM, Nadine's phone had undoubtedly turned into a toxic wasteland of missed calls and thinly veiled inquiries.
I was sitting in my sunlit studio on the second floor of our home, sketching architectural designs for a new boutique hotel downtown, when my phone buzzed violently against the reclaimed oak desk.
It wasn't an unknown number. It was Chad.
I stared at the screen, watching the letters of his name pulse against the glass. I hadn't heard his voice in four years—not since the final divorce proceedings where his lawyer tried to strip me of my right to own even the clothes in my suitcase.
I pressed speakerphone and placed it on the desk, continuing to shade the intricate lines of a lobby archway.
"Clara," Chad's voice barked through the speaker. It relies on the smooth, practiced charm he uses in public; instead, it sounded shrill, panicked, and unhinged. "What the hell do you think you're playing at?"
"Good morning, Chad," I said evenly, my hand steady as the pencil glided across the paper. "It's been a while."
"Don't give me that calm, superior garbage!" he shouted, the sound of rustling paper echoing in the background. "My mother is beside herself. She called me in tears—do you have any idea what you've done to her social standing? Telling people... parading around with that guy like you're some kind of royalty?"
"I didn't tell anyone anything, Chad. Your mother made a public announcement to half the county, and as I recalled, she dropped her own champagne flute."
"Shut up!" Chad snarled. "You manipulate this! You deliberately set her up to humiliate her at a family wedding! And now... what is this nonsense about Marsh Enterprises calling in our commercial notes? That's impossible! Those loans aren't due for another three years!"
Ah. So Elliot hadn't wasted any time.
I stopped sketching, lifting my pencil and leaning back in my chair. A quiet, fierce satisfaction warmed my chest. "Contracts change hands, Chad. Especially when the underlying assets are rotting from the inside out. Didn't your mother ever teach you how to read the fine print?"
"You listen to me, Clara," Chad hissed, his voice dropping into a venomous lower register. "You think you're safe behind your new rich husband? You think a fancy last name erases what you are? I made you. I can unmake you just as easily. I still have copies of your old medical evaluations, the psychoactive notes my mother gathered when you were—"
"When I was having a nervous breakdown under the constant psychological torture of living in your house?" I interrupted, my voice dropping all pretense of politeness, turning ice-cold. "Go ahead, Chad. Release them. Publish them in the newspaper. Try to use them in court. Because unlike five years ago, I have an army of legal representations, a husband who owns half the commercial real estate in this state, and a paper trail a mile long detailing every penny your mother embezzled from the family trust to keep your failing business afloat."
Silence hangs heavily on the line. The frantic rustling of paper stopped instantly.
"How... how do you know about that?" Chad stammered, the bravado evaporating from his voice in a second single.
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"People talk, Chad," I said softly. "Especially when they realize the ship is sinking. Now, do me a favor. Lose my number. Because the next time your mother decides to open her mouth in public, I won't just let Elliot audit your loans. We'll foreclose."
I tapped the screen, ending the call before he could sputter another syllable. The phone went dark. I picked up my pencil, exhaled a long, slow breath, and went back to drawing.
