Chapter 5 - The Eviction of Sloane Pierce
While Grant was frantically working the phones in his half-empty corporate offices, Sloane Pierce was learning the cold reality of life without my money.
At five-fifteen on Thursday evening, I stood on the sidewalk across from the luxury high-rise at 140 Franklin Street in Tribeca. The rain had cleared, leaving the cobblestones glistening under the amber glow of the cast-iron streetlamps.
Miriam Cross stood beside me, holding a court-certified order of immediate possession and a uniformed New York City marshal.
A moving van was parked at the curb, its hazard lights blinking rhythmically. Two men in blue jumpsuits were methodically carrying designer luggage, oversized garment bags, and expensive modern art pieces out of the front lobby doors and setting them on the wet pavement.
Suddenly, the glass entrance doors burst open.
Sloane stumbled out onto the street, wearing an oversized cashmere coat, dark sunglasses, and running shoes. She was screaming at the building concierge, her voice echoing down the historic street.
"You can't do this! Do you know who my father is? My father will buy this entire building and fire every single one of you miserable bastards!"
"Your father already called the landlord, Ms. Pierce," the marshal said, stepping forward and presenting the white court document. "Mr. Thomas Pierce explicitly stated to the property manager that he has no financial liability for this unit and instructed us to remove all unauthorized occupants immediately."
Sloane froze. She ripped off her sunglasses. Her eyes were red-rimmed, puffy, and wild with fury.
Then she saw me.
She looked across the street, her gaze locking onto me standing in my Dior suit, hands resting casually in the pockets of my wool coat.
For three long seconds, she simply stared. The smug, radiant woman who had smiled at me in the mirror of the bridal salon—the woman who had turned her neck to let the diamonds catch the light, believing she had conquered Manhattan—looked completely unrecognizable. She looked like a petulant child whose stolen toys had been yanked from her hands.
She marched across the cobblestones, heedless of the puddles splashing her ankles.
"You think you’ve won, don't you?" Sloane snarled, stopping three feet from me, trembling with rage. "You think because you took my apartment and my car, you’re better than me? Grant is with me! He’s at the Pierre Hotel right now, setting up our new suite! He told me this morning that divorcing you is the greatest relief of his life!"
I looked down at her. I felt no anger. No jealousy. Only a profound, clinical pity.
"Sloane," I said softly. "Grant didn't book a suite at the Pierre."
"He did! He’s waiting for me!"
"Grant’s corporate cards were cancelled at noon today by his board of directors," I explained calmly, as if describing the weather. "His personal accounts have an emergency freeze placed on them by the Supreme Court of New York. If Grant is at the Pierre, he is currently sitting in the lobby praying that his coat check doesn't require a ten-dollar cash tip."
Sloane’s mouth trembled. "You’re lying."
"Your father cut you off, Sloane," I continued. "He’s currently meeting with my attorneys to negotiate how he can salvage his logistics company from Grant’s bankruptcy. He told Vivienne that if you contact Grant Whitmore again, he will formally disinherit you."
"My father wouldn't do that!"
"Your father loves his money far more than he loves your vanity," I replied. "And you made the fatal mistake of choosing a partner whose entire empire was built on a lie. You wanted to be Mrs. Whitmore? Congratulations. You can have him. You can have his debts, you can have his pending grand jury subpoenas, and you can have his legal defense bills."
I took one step closer, looking directly into her wide, terrified eyes.
"And Sloane? The bridal salon called me this afternoon. They asked where to send the nine-thousand-dollar cancellation invoice for the rush alterations on your dress."
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a crisp, folded piece of paper, and tucked it into the breast pocket of her oversized coat.
"I gave them your mother’s address. Have a wonderful evening."
May you like
I turned on my heel and walked toward Julian Vance’s waiting black Maybach, leaving Sloane Pierce standing alone on the wet sidewalk among her pile of designer luggage, sobbing hysterically into the November cold.
***
