Chapter 9 - The Fall of Royce
The unraveling of Camden Royce was swift, public, and total.
By the following Tuesday, the Department of Justice had unsealed a thirty-two-count indictment charging Camden Royce and Sloane Mercer with conspiracy, wire fraud, computer fraud, and interstate transportation of stolen property. The grand jury had taken less than three hours to return the true bill, bolstered by Sloane’s detailed audio confessions and the uncorrupted server archives Dr. Vance had secured.
The tabloid press, which Camden had spent years courting, turned on him with feral delight.
The *New York Post* ran a front-page picture of Camden being led out of his midtown hotel in handcuffs under the headline: **FROM CEO TO CELL BLOCK**. Sloane Mercer was released on two million dollars bail, wearing oversized sunglasses as she fled reporters outside the Foley Square courthouse, her designer lifestyle permanently repossessed by the federal government.
The civil divorce proceedings were finalized six weeks later in a closed hearing before Judge Harrison.
Under the terms of the prenuptial agreement Camden had so arrogantly designed to protect his wealth from me, all assets acquired through marital fraud were returned to the Vale-Sterling Trust. His penthouses were sold at auction to satisfy corporate tax liens. His luxury sports cars were liquidated by federal marshals. Even the bespoke velvet tuxedo he had worn to the Grand Meridian sat in an evidence locker in Lower Manhattan.
On the afternoon the final divorce decree was entered, I walked down the broad granite steps of the New York County Supreme Court into the crisp December air.
The sky above Manhattan was a brilliant, crystalline blue. The winter sun reflected off the glass towers of the financial district, cold and bright.
Waiting near the base of the steps was Camden.
He was out on bail pending his sentencing hearing, wearing an ill-fitting wool overcoat he had likely purchased off the rack with the small allowance the court permitted from his frozen accounts. His hair had grown out, unkempt, and the silver threads at his temples were no longer artfully dyed. He looked ten years older, hollowed out by fear and isolation.
When he saw me descending the steps, flanked by Margaret Ellis, he stepped forward. His court-appointed legal guardian hovered five paces back, looking uneasy.
"Elena," Camden called out. His voice was thin, stripped of its resonant baritone.
Margaret moved to block him, but I placed a gentle hand on her sleeve. "It’s all right, Margaret. Wait by the car."
I walked down the remaining three steps, stopping four feet from him.
"You look well," he said, offering a ghost of his old, charming smile. It failed completely, dying on his chapped lips.
"I am well, Camden," I said simply.
"The plea agreement is for forty-eight months," he whispered, looking down at the gray granite beneath his worn dress shoes. "In Otisville. My lawyer says if I behave, I might get out in thirty-six."
"I know. Margaret received the notification."
Camden looked up, his eyes watering in the sharp December wind. "I lost everything, Elena. My career, my reputation, my friends... every single person who shook my hand last month has blocked my calls. Julian Vance crossed the street when he saw me near Grand Central yesterday. It’s like I never existed."
"You existed, Camden," I said, looking at him with neither malice nor joy, but with the quiet clarity of a survivor who had reached the shore. "You existed as an ambition that forgot how to be human."
"Did you ever love me?" he asked suddenly, a desperate, childish question torn from his pride. "Or was I just a project for you? A stray dog you let into your family's house?"
I took a deep breath, the cold winter air filling my lungs, sharp and clean.
"I loved you with my whole heart, Camden," I said softly. "I loved you enough to let you take the spotlight. I loved you enough to celebrate your victories and absorb your moods. I loved you so much that I was willing to be invisible just so you could feel large."
A single tear rolled down Camden’s gaunt cheek, freezing in the wind.
"Then why didn't you save me?" he choked out.
"Because you didn't want to be saved, Camden," I replied. "You wanted to reign. And kings who build their thrones out of cruelty always fall by their own swords."
I turned away from him, walking toward the town car waiting at the curb.
"Elena!" he called out one last time, his voice lost beneath the roar of downtown traffic.
May you like
I did not stop. I stepped into the warm interior of the car, closed the door, and told the driver to head uptown. Through the rear window, I watched his small, solitary figure shrink against the massive gray facade of the courthouse, until the city turned a corner and he disappeared entirely from my view.
***
