Chapter 5 - The Exile
Three days later, the temperature in Chicago dropped below zero, and a fresh blanket of snow coated the city streets in a layer of blinding white.
Inside a cramped, drafty, one-bedroom sublet in a rundown neighborhood on the city’s far North Side, Sloane Mercer was crying so hard she was hyperventilating.
“What do you mean we can’t order UberEats? My credit card was declined!” Sloane shrieked, throwing her designer handbag against the peeling plaster wall. The bag bounced harmlessly and landed on a worn-out floral sofa that smelled faintly of damp cat hair.
Grant sat at a wobbly wooden kitchen table, staring blankly at a laptop screen that displayed a bank account balance of exactly $12.43.
“Sloane, please,” Grant muttered, his voice hollow and lifeless. “Just… stop yelling. My head is splitting.”
“Stop yelling?!” Sloane screamed, marching over to the table and leaning down so her face was inches from his. The expensive makeup she usually wore was smudged, her hair was unwashed, and the illusion of the pampered corporate mistress had completely vanished, replaced by a bitter, desperate reality. “You promised me the penthouse! You promised me a car! You promised me I would be the queen of Chicago! Instead, I’m living in a roach-infested shoebox with a broke loser whose company just filed for emergency bankruptcy!”
“It’s not my fault!” Grant snapped, finally losing his temper. He slammed his fist onto the table, rattling a mug of instant coffee. “I built that company from nothing! Meredith stole it from me! She manipulated the legal filings!”
“She outsmarted you!” Sloane laughed hysterically, clapping her hands mockingly. “Because you’re an idiot, Grant! You thought you could trade me in like a used car, and you didn't even check who held the keys to the garage!”
Grant stared at her, the final shred of affection he had ever felt for her evaporating into thin air. He realized then that Sloane had never loved him. She had loved the Patek Philippe watch, the Tom Ford suits, the VIP tables at exclusive clubs, and the illusion of power. The moment the power vanished, she became as venomous as a trapped animal.
“Get out,” Grant whispered.
Sloane stopped yelling. She stared at him, blinking in disbelief. “What did you say?”
“I said, get out,” Grant repeated, standing up from the table. His voice was steady, infused with a sudden, bitter clarity. “Pack your designer clothes, grab your precious silver dress, and get out of my apartment.”
“Your apartment?!” Sloane shrieked. “This is a shithole! You don't own this! You’re sleeping on a cot in the corner!”
“And you’re sharing it with me,” Grant said coldly. “So pack your bags, Sloane. We’re done.”
Sloane stared at him for a long, silent moment. Realizing that there was nothing left to extract from him, her expression twisted into pure, unadulterated hatred. She grabbed her coat, snatched her designer bag off the floor, and marched toward the door.
She wrenched the door open, stepped out into the freezing hallway, and slammed it so hard the cheap drywall cracked.
Then, silence returned to the apartment.
Grant sank back down into the wooden chair. He looked around the dingy, claustrophobic room. For the first time in twelve years, there was no one to impress. No investors to woo, no magazines to pose for, no mistress to maintain.
He was just Grant. A disgraced former CEO with no money, no company, and no future.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened his contacts. He scrolled down to a name he hadn't dialed in years—his mother’s number in a small town outside Peoria.
May you like
His fingers hovered over the screen. He swallowed the bitter lump in his throat, tapped the call button, and listened to the phone begin to ring.
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