Chapter 3
The media frenzy reached a fever pitch over the following month,
dominating headlines across the globe.
Hale Development was officially restructured under the Carter Global umbrella,
and the public watched in shock as the titans of real estate were reduced to mere footnotes.
I avoided the cameras,
staying hidden in my penthouse,
directing the massive corporate transition from the shadows.
My father visited often,
bringing hot coffee and fresh pastries,
proudly watching me wield the power I had inherited.
"You are doing brilliantly,"
he told me one afternoon,
watching the stock ticker on the financial news network.
"The market has stabilized,"
I noted,
swiping through a complex spreadsheet on my tablet,
"and the investors are actually relieved that competent management has taken over."
"Randolph's friends abandoned him,"
my father chuckled,
"as soon as they realized he was toxic,
they scattered like cockroaches."
It was true,
the high-society friends who had mocked me for my simple dresses were now scrambling to align themselves with Carter Global.
Invitations to exclusive galas flooded my mailroom,
sent by the very same people who had laughed when Prescott slapped me.
I threw every single one of them into the fire,
watching the thick,
gold-leafed paper burn to ashes.
I had no desire to rejoin their superficial world,
a world built on empty promises,
fake smiles,
and endless backstabbing.
One evening,
my security detail intercepted a strange package left at the lobby desk.
It was a small wooden box,
tied with a black ribbon,
containing a single silver key and a handwritten note.
The note was from Prescott,
written in his messy,
hurried scrawl.
"Meet me at the old marina,"
it read,
"where we had our first date,
please."
My head of security,
a towering former military operator named Vance,
advised against it entirely.
"It could be a trap,"
Vance warned,
his jaw tight with professional concern.
"It isn't a trap,"
I said confidently,
"he is too much of a coward to try anything violent without his father's money."
"I will go,"
I decided,
"but you will follow at a distance."
Vance nodded,
instantly organizing a discreet,
heavily armed convoy to accompany me.
I wore a simple trench coat,
stepping out into the cool,
misty evening air.
The old marina was deserted,
the docks groaning gently against the tide,
illuminated only by the flickering glow of yellow streetlamps.
Prescott was standing near the end of the pier,
his shoulders slumped,
staring down into the dark water.
He looked terrible,
his face covered in dark stubble,
his designer coat wrinkled and stained.
"You came,"
he whispered,
turning to face me,
his eyes hollow and haunted.
"I came to tell you to stop sending me things,"
I replied coldly,
keeping a safe distance.
"I have nothing,"
he sobbed,
collapsing to his knees on the damp wooden planks.
"The government took the house,"
he cried,
"they took the cars,
and my friends won't even answer my calls."
"You built your life on illusions,"
I told him,
feeling absolutely no sympathy for the man who had abused me.
"When the money disappeared,
the illusions vanished with it."
"I loved you,"
he pleaded,
reaching out a trembling hand.
"You loved having someone to control,"
I corrected him,
"you loved having a punching bag."
"I can change,"
he begged,
tears streaming down his face.
"You don't have to,"
I said softly,
"because you are no longer my problem."
I turned my back on him,
walking away down the long,
foggy pier,
May you like
leaving him alone in the dark,
exactly where he belonged.
