Chapter 3 - THE AFTERMATH IN TRIBECA
By 9:00 PM, the Tribeca loft was silent.
The flower arrangements—thousands of dollars of white roses and imported hydrangeas—still stand in tall glass vases along the hallway, filling the open floor plan with the sickly-sweet scent of a funeral home.
Natalie and I sat on the linen sofa, surrounded by takeaway boxes from a local diner. We had kicked off our high heels hours ago. Natalie was wearing one of my oversized gray sweatshirts; I was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, my bridal gown draped over a chair in the corner like a shed skin.
"How are you holding up?" Natalie asked, handing me a glass of red wine.
"I think I'm still in shock," I admitted, looking at the city lights twinkling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Three weeks ago, I was worried about whether the wedding cake would be vanilla or lemon raspberry. Tonight, I'm waiting for federal journalists to call me back."
"It gets easier," Natalie said softly. "The first few months after I found out what he did, I couldn't sleep. Every time the phone rang, I thought it was a debt collector. Every time I checked my credit score, I felt sick. He steals more than your money, Claire. He steals your ability to trust your own senses."
I looked at her, feeling a profound wave of gratitude that transcended the strange circumstances of our connection.
When I had first discovered Natalie's name on the corporate guarantor document three weeks ago, I had expected an enemy. I had expected a jealous ex-girlfriend, or perhaps an accomplice. Instead, when I called her, I had found a survivor—a woman who had spent four years rebuilding her life from scratch after Lucas had stripped her of her savings, her credit, and her reputation.
"Why didn't you go to the press four years ago?" I asked.
"I didn't have proof back then," Natalie explained, taking a sip of wine. "He was smart. He made sure every document looked like a mistake or a miscommunication. He used paper trails that dissolved. By the time I realized what had happened, the bank was threatening to seize my car, and I was too broke to hire a lawyer like Arthur Vance."
She paused, looking at me with a soft smile.
"Then you called me. And when you told me you were willing to spend your own money to hire forensic auditors before he could sign the marriage certificate... I knew we had him."
The heavy oak front door of the loft clicked open.
I froze, my hand instinctively tightening around my wine glass. But it wasn't Lucas.
My attorney, Marcus Thorne, walked in carrying a heavy leather briefcase. He took off his coat, hung it on the rack, and walked straight over to the kitchen island, pulling out a sheaf of legal documents.
"The judge signed the asset preservation order half an hour ago," Marcus said, his professional demo cracking into a grim smile. "Lucas is currently being held at the Central Booking facility in Manhattan. Bail has been set at two million dollars, bond only, with a requirement to prove the funds were legally obtained."
"Can he pay it?" I asked.
"Not a chance," Marcus laughed softly. "Every single bank account associated with Montgomery Event Group, his personal name, and his shell corporations has been frozen. Furthermore, the district attorney just added four counts of aggravated identity theft, three counts of grand larceny, and two counts of wire fraud."
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Marcus looked between Natalie and me.
"Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, the press will break the story. By noon, Lucas Montgomery will be the most infamous fraudster in the New York real estate and event sector since Anna Delvey."
