Chapter 7 - The Desperate Accord
The rain had returned to New York, washing over the grime of Queens in thick, gray sheets.
Harrison Sterling sat on the edge of a stained mattress in a twenty-dollar-a-night motel room near the airport. The room smelled of mildew, cheap disinfectant, and old cigarettes. On the small plastic table sat a half-eaten container of cold takeout noodles and his smartphone, its cracked screen buzzing intermittently with calls from debt collectors, reporters, and process servers.
He had tried calling his college friends; they hung up. He had tried calling his golf partners; their assistants informed him that their schedules were fully booked for the next six months. He had tried calling Damian Vance; the line was disconnected.
The door to the motel room swung open with a violent rattle.
Sloane stood in the doorway, soaked to the bone, dragging two heavy suitcases through the puddle on the threshold. Her hair was matted to her skull, her expensive cashmere coat stained with dirty street water.
"You," she hissed, her voice vibrating with pure venom as she slammed the door behind her. "You miserable, impotent coward."
Harrison didn't look up from the floor. "Get out, Sloane."
"Get out?!" Sloane shrieked, kicking one of her suitcases across the linoleum floor. "I got evicted this morning! They threw me out like garbage! The marshals took everything—my bags, my shoes, the jewelry you bought me! They gave me five hundred dollars and a bus ticket to Ohio!"
Harrison let out a hollow, dead laugh. "Five hundred dollars? You're richer than I am. My balance is negative forty-two thousand."
Sloane lunged forward, grabbing the collar of his rumpled shirt, pulling him up until their faces were inches apart. "You lied to me! You told me you were the heir! You told me Clara was a puppet and you pulled the strings! You dragged me into this, you pathetic loser!"
Harrison grabbed her wrists and shoved her backward. Sloane stumbled, hitting the edge of the small table, knocking the cold noodles onto the floor.
"I lied?!" Harrison screamed, his eyes bloodshot, veins bulging in his neck. "What about you?! You told me you were carrying my son! You stood in my wife’s foyer, in front of her mother’s portrait, waving an ultrasound like a victory flag!"
Sloane froze, her chest heaving.
"The test results came back, Sloane," Harrison whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of agony and rage. "Zero percent. Zero! You were sleeping with Damian Vance while I was flying across the Pacific to close deals for us!"
Sloane’s eyes shifted, the guilt flashing briefly across her features before being swallowed by ruthless self-preservation. "Damian actually had money! He actually knew how to run an empire! You were just a glorified paper-pusher living in your wife’s house! Do you think I actually loved you, Harrison? Do you think any woman would love a spineless weakling who has to ask his dead mother-in-law’s lawyers for permission to buy a watch?!"
Harrison stood frozen, the words hitting him with the force of physical blows.
"You used me," he choked out.
"Of course I used you!" Sloane yelled, tears of frustration streaming down her face. "Everyone uses people like you! And now we're both ruined! Damian’s company is going under because Clara called in his loans! We have nothing!"
Harrison stared at her. The illusion was completely gone.
Six months ago, he had looked at Sloane and seen youth, passion, and an escape from the crushing weight of the Ashford expectations. Now, stripped of luxury apartments, designer clothes, and my family’s money, he saw her for what she truly was: a shallow, venomous grifter who had destroyed everything she touched.
"Get out," Harrison said, his voice dropping into a flat, dangerous monotone.
"What?"
"Get out of this room," he said, walking to the door and pulling it open, letting the cold, rainy wind howl inside. "Take your bus ticket and go to Ohio. Because if I look at your face for one more second, I can't guarantee what I’ll do."
Sloane looked at his eyes—dead, hollow, and completely unhinged—and for the first time, she was genuinely afraid of him.
She grabbed the handles of her two suitcases and backed out into the rain.
"You'll rot in prison, Harrison," she spat through her teeth. "And Clara will be drinking champagne on your grave."
May you like
Harrison slammed the door shut, slid the chain latch into place, and sank down against the wood, burying his face in his hands as the thunder shook the motel walls.
***
