Chapter 9 - The Rat in the Corner
The name sent a sharp shiver down my spine.
Julian Thorne was the head of Thorne Global, an aggressive private equity predator who had tried and failed three times to launch hostile takeovers of Hartwell assets during my father’s lifetime. Julian was ruthless, unethical, and possessed enough capital to wage a ten-year war of attrition in the federal courts.
If Grant had gone to Thorne, it meant he was no longer trying to save his reputation or his money. He was trying to burn the entire house down, offering Thorne the proprietary blueprints, internal trade algorithms, and patented biotech data of the Hartwell family in exchange for scorched-earth revenge.
I didn't sleep that night.
By eight o'clock the following morning, the drama took a sudden, volatile turn on social media.
A video had been uploaded to TikTok and Twitter at dawn. It wasn't leaked footage from the paparazzi; it was recorded from the hallway of a boutique hotel in Long Island City.
In the shaky video, Grant and Chloe were screaming at each other outside room 314.
"You told me she had nothing!" Chloe shrieked, her voice echoing down the narrow hotel corridor. She was wearing an oversized hoodie, her face bare and ravaged. "You told me she was just a figurehead! You used my signature to steal forty million dollars! The FBI was at my mother’s house this morning, Grant! You turned me into a criminal!"
"Shut your mouth!" Grant roared, his face purple with fury, lunging forward to grab her shoulder. "You wanted the Birkin bags! You wanted the penthouse! You were happy enough to parade around in her wedding dress like an idiot! That was your idea! You ruined everything with your pathetic, vanity stunt!"
"You coward!" Chloe slapped him across the face, a sharp, ringing crack that echoed through the phone speakers. "You left me in the rain while you drove away! You left me to die!"
"Get away from me, you worthless little parasite!" Grant screamed, shoving her violently against the hallway wall before retreating into his room and slamming the heavy door.
The video had already garnered seven million views in three hours. The comment sections were an absolute bloodbath. The internet, which Grant had always treated as a tool to cultivate his suave billionaire image, had transformed into the digital colosseum cheering for his destruction.
Elena walked into my study, holding an iPad. "Vivian... Chloe is downstairs at our residential gate."
I looked up from my desk. "Chloe is here? In Greenwich?"
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"She walked the entire two miles from the train station in the mud," Elena said, her voice tinged with disbelief. "She’s begging to speak to you. She says she has something you need."
***
