Chapter 4 - The Nine-Fifteen Execution
The offices of Bennett & Associates sat on the forty-second floor of a glass-and-steel monolith overlooking Bryant Park.
At 9:10 AM on Friday morning, Jason Bennett sat behind his custom walnut desk, wearing a charcoal suit that cost more than Catherine’s first car, sipping an Americano, and smiling at the computer screen.
Life was good.
The awkward dinner at the restaurant the night before had ended slightly messier than he would have liked—Catherine had shown a stubborn, pathetic streak he hadn't anticipated—but she would come around. Women like Catherine always came around. They lacked the stomach for real conflict. By Monday, once her lawyer explained that fighting him would only lead to legal bills she couldn't afford, she would sign the papers, pack her sensible shoes, and disappear into some quiet apartment in Queens.
Allison walked into his office without knocking, wearing a cream-colored silk blouse and a triumphant grin. She carried two fresh coffees and set one down beside his keyboard.
"Did she call?" Allison asked, leaning against the edge of his desk, her fingers brushing his shoulder.
"Not yet," Jason said, checking his Rolex. "Give her an hour. She spent the night alone in that big, empty house; by now, the reality of being forty-two and single is sinking in. She’ll cave."
"She looked pathetic last night," Allison laughed softly, taking a sip of her latte. "Holding that purse like it was a life jacket. I almost felt sorry for her."
"Don't," Jason said, his smile tightening. "She's always been a drain. A nice ornament for the early years, but completely dead weight once a man starts building an actual empire."
Before Allison could answer, the heavy double doors of his private office banged open.
Jason’s corporate counsel, a nervous middle-aged man named Henderson, stumbled across the threshold, holding a tablet computer like it might detonate at any second. His face was the color of skimmed milk.
"Jason," Henderson gasped, his voice cracking. "We have a catastrophic situation."
Jason frowned, leaning back in his leather chair. "Henderson, keep your voice down. What are you talking about?"
"The primary clearinghouse accounts," Henderson choked out, slamming the tablet down onto the walnut desk. "They're frozen. All of them. First National, Chase, the municipal operating lines—every single corporate account has been placed under a federal receivership seal."
Jason’s smile vanished. He stood up so fast his chair rolled backward into the wood-paneled wall. "Frozen? By who? On whose authority?!"
"The Southern District Bankruptcy Court," Henderson said, his hands shaking. "An emergency creditor petition was filed thirty minutes ago by Daniel Brooks on behalf of an unlisted primary lienholder. They claim there's an un-disclosed twenty-million-dollar liability tied to a defaulted commercial real estate note in Queens."
"Queens?" Jason shouted, his face turning a mottled red. "I restructured that debt six months ago! It’s buried under a shell company! How the hell did anyone find it?!"
"That's not the worst of it, Jason," Henderson whispered, his eyes darting toward Allison before returning to his client with pure terror. "The petitioner also filed a criminal referral for corporate forgery. They have a notarized affidavit from a disgraced notary named Vincent Moretti stating you forged a spousal signature on a primary asset-guarantee form in 2023."
The room spun.
Jason grabbed the edge of the desk to keep from falling. "Moretti? Moretti is dead—or in hiding! How did they get him?!"
"They didn't get him," a cold, smooth voice answered from the doorway.
Jason and Henderson snapped their heads toward the entrance.
Standing in the doorway was Daniel Brooks, looking immaculate in a tailored navy suit, holding a thick manila folder. Behind him stood two federal marshals in dark tactical vests, their badges gleaming under the recessed office lights.
And stepping calmly between them, wearing an emerald-green wrap dress and a coat she had left in the Maybach the night before, was Catherine Bennett.
She looked taller than Jason remembered.
May you like
Her shoulders were back, her chin was high, and her eyes—clear, bright, and completely devoid of the nervous apologies he had weaponized for a decade—locked onto his with the absolute, unyielding certainty of a queen walking into a conquered throne room.
"Good morning, Jason," Catherine said, her voice cutting through the silent office like a diamond blade. "I hope I’m not interrupting your morning meeting with your marketing director."
