Chapter 8 - The Desperate Rat
The back alley of the Grand Monarch smelled of rotting kitchen scraps, wet cardboard, and the bitter exhaust of the ventilation units overhead.
Grant Mitchell knelt in the grease, clutching the cold silver paperweight to his chest as if it were a talisman that could magically turn back the clock. His hair was plastered to his skull with oily rain, and his manicured fingernails were split and bleeding from clawing through the mud.
"Grant?"
A sharp, panicked whisper came from the shadows near the grease trap.
Grant flinched, snapping his head up.
Stepping out from beneath the dripping metal awning of the service stairs was Madison Vance.
She looked unrecognizable. The glamorous, radiant socialite who had stepped out of the Maybach an hour ago was completely gone. Her towering Christian Louboutin heels had snapped off at the base; she had discarded them and was standing barefoot on the filthy, cigarette-strewn concrete. Her sheer ruby-red gown was soaked through, clinging to her shivering frame like a wet rag, stained with black oil across the hips. Her elaborate makeup had run completely down her cheeks in grotesque, black rivers of mascara and melted foundation.
She was shivering so violently that her knees were knocking together.
"Madison?" Grant croaked, his voice raw and gravelly.
"Grant!" Madison gasped, stumbling toward him with manic desperation in her eyes. "Thank God! Grant, you have to help me! The police... they were waiting at my apartment building! My doorman texted me! They have a search warrant! They’re seizing everything!"
She dropped to her knees in the dirt beside him, her hands clawing at his soaked lapels.
"Where is your backup car? Where is the private jet? You told me you had an offshore account in Zurich with fifty million dollars! Give me the login! We can call a black car, we can get to the private airfield in Van Nuys, we can leave tonight!"
Grant stared at her through the rain. For a brief second, his mind flashed back to the red carpet. He remembered the cruel, triumphant sneer on her face when she stepped on the velvet rope. He remembered her screaming into the microphone: *‘HE’S MINE NOW!’*
He remembered her slapping his hand away just thirty minutes ago, calling him an ugly, balding, pathetic con artist.
A slow, terrifying laugh bubbled up from Grant’s chest. It started as a dry rattle, then expanded into a high-pitched, hysterical cackle that echoed off the brick walls of the alley.
"Zurich?" Grant laughed, tears of madness streaming down his cheeks. "The private jet? Madison... you stupid, greedy little parasite."
Madison froze, her eyes widening in fury and fear. "What did you say to me?!"
"There is no Zurich account," Grant sneered, his voice shaking with venom. "There is no private jet. The jet was chartered on Claire’s father’s corporate card. The penthouse was leased through Claire’s trust. Apex Capital wasn't mine! None of it was mine! I was just a pet! A trained dog playing CEO!"
Madison’s face contorted into utter, feral rage. She lunged forward, her fingers hooking like claws, and raked her nails across Grant’s cheek, opening three bleeding tracks across his face.
"You fraud!" she shrieked, her voice bouncing violently off the steel dumpsters. "You ruined my life! I had brand deals! I was about to sign a seven-figure contract with Sephora! I had eight million followers! Now they’re making memes about me! They’re calling me a dumpster-diving gold digger on every website on earth! You destroyed me!"
"I destroyed you?!" Grant roared, throwing his arms out and violently shoving her backward.
Madison slipped on the wet grease, falling hard on her tailbone into the filthy sludge, screaming in pain as her back hit the metal corner of the industrial dumpster.
"You begged me to leave her!" Grant screamed, standing over her like a deranged madman, his eyes wild and bulging. "You told me she was plain! You told me she was holding me back! You told me a real billionaire needed a supermodel on his arm! You sucked every dollar out of my accounts for your disgusting bags and your private villas! You took everything, and the second the ship started sinking, you stabbed me in the back on live television!"
"Because you’re a nobody!" Madison screamed back, spitting blood and mud from her lips as she struggled to push herself up. "You’re nothing without her! You never were! You’re just a cheap little boy from Ohio playing dress-up!"
"Shut up!" Grant bellowed, raising the heavy silver paperweight above his head, his face twisted in homicidal rage. "SHUT UP!"
"Security! Over here!" a sharp voice barked from the end of the alley.
Two hotel security officers, accompanied by two armed Sheriff’s deputies with drawn flashlights, sprinted around the corner of the brick wall. The high-powered beams of the tactical lights illuminated the alley in stark, blinding white.
"Drop the weapon! Drop it right now!" the Deputy screamed, his hand resting on the grip of his service weapon.
Grant froze. The heavy silver paperweight slipped from his numbed, shaking fingers, hitting the concrete with a dull, hollow thud.
Madison immediately rolled onto her side, clutching her face, sobbing theatrically in the mud. "Help me! Please! He tried to kill me! He attacked me! He’s crazy!"
The two deputies moved with swift, brutal efficiency. One pinned Grant against the wet brick wall, forcing his arm behind his back with a sharp, agonizing twist until Grant cried out in pain. The cold, heavy steel of handcuffs clicked shut around his wrists with a sickening, final snap.
"Grant Mitchell," the Deputy recited, his voice flat and routine, "you are under arrest for domestic battery, felony embezzlement, and interstate corporate fraud pursuant to federal warrant #4492-B. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
"Wait!" Grant wept, his forehead pressed hard against the abrasive, cold red brick. "Wait! It was a misunderstanding! I am Samuel Whitmore’s son-in-law! Call Samuel Whitmore! Call my wife, Claire! She will drop the charges! She loves me! She’s just angry!"
The Deputy pulled Grant back from the wall, looking at the soaked, bleeding, half-insane former CEO with pure pity and disgust.
"Son," the Deputy said quietly, "Samuel Whitmore’s lead attorney was the one who signed the sworn affidavit for your arrest twenty minutes ago. Your wife didn't drop the charges. She personally handed over the banking records that will put you in federal prison for twenty-five years."
Grant stopped struggling.
The last remaining thread of his reality snapped. His legs completely lost their strength, and the deputies had to drag his limp, weeping body through the alley like a sack of wet laundry.
Behind them, the second deputy grabbed Madison by the arm, hauling her up from the puddle.
"Madison Vance? You’re also coming with us. Federal grand jury subpoena as an unindicted co-conspirator. Move."
"No!" Madison screamed, her barefoot toes scraping against the asphalt. "My shoes! Where are my shoes?! My Birkin bag! Please, let me get my bag!"
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Nobody stopped. The heavy rain washed over the torn garbage bags by the dumpster, dissolving the expensive cosmetics, soaking through the Parisian silk, and carrying the shattered pieces of their vanity straight down the storm drain into the dark, indifferent ocean.
***
