Chapter 5 - THE AFTERMATH IN SILK
The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Vance Estate in Greenwich, illuminating the quiet elegance of the breakfast room.
I sat in a cream silk robe, holding a mug of chamomile tea. On the glass table lay three different national newspapers.
THE DAILY FINANCIAL: MERCER ENTERPRISES COLLAPSES FOLLOWING DRAMATIC GALA EXPOSÉ. TABLOID DAILY: HEIR SLAPS SHIPPING HEIRESS—FAMILY LOSES EVERYTHING IN 60 MINUTES.
A viral video from the gala had already accrued forty-two million views on social media. The tag #TheBlueFile was trending number one worldwide.
My mother sat across from me, reading a briefing from her risk-management team while sipping black coffee.
"Ethan’s legal counsel has tried calling Arthur seven times since six this morning," Eleanor said without looking up from her tablet. "They are offering to sign a full, uncontested divorce settlement if we freeze the immediate asset liquidation."
"What did Arthur say?" I asked, my thumb tracing the rim of my tea mug.
"Arthur told them that Vance Global does not negotiate with domestic abusers," Eleanor replied calmly. "The foreclosure on the Mercer mansion begins at noon today."
A heavy knock echoed at the heavy wooden entrance of the estate.
A few moments later, my mother’s head butler, Gregory, stepped into the dining room. "Mrs. Vance, Miss Nora... Ethan Mercer is at the front gate. He refuses to leave. He is demanding five minutes with Miss Nora."
Eleanor set her tablet down, her eyes darkening. "Call the local police. Have him removed for trespassing."
"Wait," I said, standing up from the table.
Eleanor looked at me, her brow furrowing slightly. "Nora, you don't need to see that boy again."
"I don't need to, Mom," I said, looking out toward the long, winding driveway. "I want to. I need him to understand that the girl he hit at the gala no longer exists."
I walked down the grand marble staircase, wrapped my trench coat tightly around my waist, and walked down the paved driveway toward the wrought-iron security gates.
Ethan was standing outside the bars. He looked atrocious. His tux from the previous night was wrinkled, his bow tie was untied and hanging around his neck, and his hair was a messy disaster. He looked like a man who hadn't slept a single second.
When he saw me walking down the driveway, he threw his hands against the iron bars.
"Nora!" he cried out, his voice hoarse. "Thank God! Nora, please open the gate! I've been sitting in my car all night!"
I stopped three feet away from the gate, keeping the heavy iron bars between us.
"You shouldn't be here, Ethan," I said quietly. "There's a temporary restraining order in place."
"I don't care about the order!" he sobbed, tears cutting dirty lines through the dust on his face. "Nora, please... I made a mistake! A terrible, monstrous mistake! I was drunk, I was under pressure from my mother... you know how she is! She's been manipulating me my whole life!"
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I looked at him, feeling a sudden, deep sense of pity—not because I wanted to forgive him, but because I realized how truly pathetic he was.
"You're thirty-two years old, Ethan," I said softly. "You can't blame your mother for the violent choice your own hand made."
