Chapter 8 - The Clean Slate
Divorce is usually a messy, drawn-out affair involving mediation, splitting assets, and bitter arguments over furniture. Mine took exactly twenty minutes.
Because Marcus was facing federal prison and utterly bankrupt, he had no leverage. He signed the papers in a holding cell, transferring full ownership of our house, the cars, and every remaining joint asset to me in exchange for my legal team not pursuing a civil suit that would garnish his prison wages for the rest of his life.
I sold the suburban house. It was tainted. Every room held a memory of a lie. I sold it to a nice young couple, packed up my personal belongings, and bought a stunning, modern penthouse in the heart of the city, overlooking the skyline my mother had helped build.
The first night in the new penthouse, I ordered expensive takeout, poured a glass of vintage Bordeaux, and sat on the floor of my massive, empty closet.
I unzipped the garment bag containing the emerald Alexander McQueen dress.
I ran my fingers over the gold silk embroidery. It no longer represented betrayal or the worst day of my life. It represented survival. It was the catalyst that had forced me to open my eyes and claim my power.
My phone buzzed. It was an email from Mr. Sterling.
Subject: The Rat. Message: Just thought you should know. Chloe Vance tried to get a job at three different PR firms in the city this week. All three CEOs called me as a courtesy. She is blacklisted. I hear she is moving back to Ohio to live with her parents.
I smiled, taking a sip of the rich red wine. Karma wasn't a mystical force; karma was a well-connected network of angry executives.
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The past was finally, definitively severed. Tomorrow, I had a board meeting to run. I had a multi-million dollar development project to approve. I was Eleanor Vance, CEO.
I stood up, holding the emerald dress against my body, looking at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. My mother was right. Grace is a weapon. And I was finally ready for war.
