Chapter 8 - The Price of Treason
“The Chantilly lace bridal gown,” Arthur said, checking the invoices in his leather folder. “Custom-made by Maison de Haute Couture in Paris. Total invoice: ninety-eight thousand dollars. Signed for by Mrs. Eleanor Vance via the corporate concierge service.”
“No...” Tiffany gasped, wrapping both arms around her torso. “No, you can't! You cannot make me take off my wedding dress!”
“The dress is the physical property of Vance Global Holdings until the final settlement is executed,” Arthur replied, his glasses gleaming under the chandeliers. “Since your financial guarantor has revoked all personal credit extensions, you have fifteen minutes to change into street clothes before the garment is impounded for resale to liquidate outstanding vendor arrears.”
“Street clothes?!” Tiffany’s voice was hysterical now, cracking into ragged sobs. “I don’t have street clothes here! Everything is in the Presidential Suite!”
“The Presidential Suite is locked,” Mr. Harrison interjected politely, his face a perfect mask of five-star neutrality. “Housekeeping is currently packing your belongings into standard industrial storage cartons. They will be deposited on the 59th Street service loading dock within the hour.”
A collective gasp swept through the ballroom. The socialites in the front rows couldn't contain their vicious smiles. To be thrown out of the St. Regis was bad enough; to have your luggage dumped on a trash-strewn Manhattan service dock in front of paparazzi and delivery trucks was social death from which no one ever recovered.
Julian finally lifted his head from the floor. His face was covered in a grotesque paste of tears, snot, and dried vanilla frosting. “Mom... please. Don’t do this to me. I’m your son. What am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to go?”
Eleanor looked down at him. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of the old maternal warmth flashed deep within her eyes—the memory of a five-year-old boy scraping his knee on a bicycle, running into her arms for comfort. But then she remembered the sound of his laughter thirty minutes ago. She remembered the sheer, cruel delight on his face as his bride degraded her before the world.
The warmth died, replaced by an arctic permafrost.
“You’re a grown man, Julian,” Eleanor said softly. “You wanted to play the high-stakes game of corporate theft and high-society arrogance. Now, you pay the buy-in.”
“I have no money!” Julian cried, clutching his mother’s designer shoes. “You frozen my accounts! My cards are dead! How do I pay rent tomorrow?! How do I buy food?!”
“You have two strong hands, Julian,” Eleanor replied. “You have an expensive Ivy League education that I paid for in full. Get a resume together. Find an entry-level sales job. Experience what it feels like to earn a single dollar by the sweat of your own brow instead of skimming it off the top of my hard work.”
She pulled her foot back, freeing her shoe from his grasp.
“And as for your legal troubles,” Eleanor added, looking over at the waiting detectives, “Arthur has been instructed not to pursue maximum criminal sentencing, provided you plead guilty to the wire fraud counts and agree to full wage garnishment for the next fifteen years. You will avoid federal prison, Julian. But you will spend the prime of your life paying back every single red cent you stole from my company.”
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Julian stared at her, the horrific reality of his new existence settling over him like a suffocating blanket. Fifteen years of poverty. Fifteen years of wage garnishment. No penthouses. No European holidays. No sports cars. Just the grim, endless grind of a disgraced felon working off a million-dollar debt.
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