Chapter 5 - The Crescent Lounge
The Hotel Crescent Court lounge was an oasis of old-money luxury—dark wood panels, plush velvet armchairs, and soft jazz playing in the background. At 9:30 AM, it was mostly empty, save for a few businessmen holding quiet laptop meetings over espresso.
When I walked in, wearing my sunglasses and a tailored trench coat, I didn't have to search long for Barrett. He was sitting at a corner booth near the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking like a man who had aged ten years overnight. His designer suit was rumpled, his hair was uncombed, and dark, exhausted circles bruised the skin beneath his gray eyes.
He looked up as I approached, a desperate flicker of hope illuminating his ruined face.
"Liv! Thank God," he breathed, standing up too quickly and knocking his water glass over. It didn't shatter—this wasn't champagne, and there was no Sasha here to orchestrate petty theatricals—but the water pooled across the dark wood table.
"Keep your seat, Barrett," I said, sliding into the opposite booth. I didn't take off my sunglasses.
"Liv, please," he stammered, leaning across the table, his hands shaking as he clasped them together. "You have to reverse the wire. The board... they voted me out this morning. They locked me out of my office, Thomas is cooperating with federal prosecutors, and they’re threatening criminal fraud charges. If I don't fix this, I’m going to prison."
I slowly pulled down my sunglasses, resting them on the table, and met his bloodshot eyes. "Prison? For what, Barrett? Siphoning corporate assets? Registering shell companies in the Caymans? Forging my signature on corporate loan guarantees?"
"It was a misunderstanding!" he choked out, his voice cracking with genuine panic. "Sasha... Sasha pushed me into that! She told me it was just temporary bridging capital! She manipulated me, Liv! You know how ambitious she is—she wanted to climb, she used me!"
I stared at him. Not with anger. Not even with heartbreak. Just pure, clinical disappointment.
"You are thirty-eight years old, Barrett," I said, my voice eerily calm. "You built a career on looking like a visionary while being nothing more than a parasite. When things go well, you take the credit. When things go wrong, you blame the twenty-five-year-old assistant you were sleeping with."
Barrett flinched as if I had slapped him across the face. "Liv... we’ve been married for ten years. Doesn't that mean anything to you? Ten years!"
"Ten years," I repeated, nodding slowly. "Ten years of me funding your dreams. Ten years of me smoothing over your mistakes with investors. Ten years of me looking the other way while you humiliated me in hotel rooms across the country. And the moment your assistant knocked my glass of champagne off the table, and you smiled... do you know what I realized, Barrett?"
He swallowed hard, unable to speak.
"I realized that I didn't hate you," I continued softly. "Hate requires an emotional investment. I simply stopped caring. And a woman who doesn't care is the most dangerous creature in the corporate world."
Before Barrett could answer, the private entrance of the lounge swung open.
Heavy, purposeful footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor.
Barrett looked up, expecting hotel security or perhaps a waiter. Instead, the color drained completely from his face as three men in sharp charcoal suits walked toward our booth.
At the front of the group was Marcus Vance—not Thomas Vance the CFO, but Marcus Vance, senior partner at the federal white-collar crime division, accompanied by two federal marshals.
"Barrett Sloan?" Marcus asked, flashing a gold badge that caught the morning light.
Barrett froze, his mouth half-open, unable to utter a single sound.
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"You're being placed under arrest for wire fraud, money laundering, and interstate conspiracy," Marcus said smoothly, pulling a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt.
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