Chapter 3 - The Scraps on the Floor
The afternoon rain poured over Wall Street, slicking the pavement outside the grand bronze doors of the Weston Capital building.
Andrew walked out of the revolving doors carrying a single cardboard box containing his personal desk items—a silver pen set, a few framed news articles, and an empty bottle of scotch. He had no coat. The cold rain soaked through his suit jacket within seconds.
Standing by the curb was his luxury Maybach. But as he reached for the door handle, the driver rolled down the window.
"Sorry, Mr. Weston," the driver said, looking away. "The lease on the vehicle was terminated by Vance Global twenty minutes ago. I'm under orders to return the car to the garage."
Before Andrew could scream, a taxi pulled up behind the Maybach.
Lila Summers stepped out, holding an umbrella over her head, wearing a expensive mink coat Andrew had bought her three months ago on credit. She held two large designer suitcases.
"Andrew!" Lila yelled, running toward him. "What is happening?! The landlady just locked us out of the Tribeca penthouse! She said the rent hasn't been paid in sixty days!"
Andrew turned on her, his face twisting into a furious mask. "You! You spent three hundred thousand dollars on my credit cards last month! I told you to slow down!"
"Me?!" Lila shrieked, her voice drawing the attention of passing pedestrians and several news reporters waiting across the street. "You told me you were worth billions! You promised me a house in the Hamptons! You lied to me!"
"I lost my company because of you!" Andrew roared, dropping his cardboard box, the silver pens spilling out onto the wet sidewalk. "If I hadn't brought you to that gala, Emma would never have left!"
"She left because you're a pathetic, arrogant loser who couldn't even keep his own company afloat!" Lila spat, pulling her suitcases toward a waiting Uber. "Don't ever call me again, Andrew! I'm going back to Miami!"
"Lila! Get back here!" Andrew screamed, taking a step toward her, but the Uber pulled away into the heavy city traffic, leaving him standing in the rain, surrounded by his scattered pens and soaked paperwork.
Across the street, three news photographers began rapidly snapping photos of the fallen Wall Street king standing drenched on the pavement.
Two hours later, Andrew sat in the small, cramped office of his divorce attorney, Frank Miller.
Andrew was wrapped in a cheap blanket provided by the secretary, drinking lukewarm coffee from a styrofoam cup.
"Frank, you have to hit her with everything," Andrew rasped, his teeth chattering. "Spousal support, asset division, child custody! She’s worth sixty billion dollars! I’m entitled to half of everything she inherited during our marriage!"
Frank Miller rested his elbows on his desk, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He slid a thick blue binder across the desk.
"Andrew, did you ever read your pre-nuptial agreement?" Frank asked gently.
"Of course I read it!" Andrew snapped. "My lawyers drafted it! It stated that if we divorced, she got a flat two-hundred-thousand-dollar settlement and no rights to Weston Capital!"
"Your lawyers drafted an agreement designed to protect your assets, Andrew," Frank corrected, tapping the document. "What your lawyers didn't realize was that Emma’s grandfather had his own legal team insert a secondary indemnification clause in Paragraph 14, Subsection C."
Andrew frowned, leaning forward. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Frank explained flatly, "that if the marriage dissolved due to verified infidelity on your part, you waived all rights to any equity, inheritance, or secondary financial trusts associated with Emma or her family lineage. Furthermore, it contains a strict bad-faith penalty clause."
"What penalty?!"
"You owe Vance Global Holdings thirty-five million dollars in liquid damages for misuse of their corporate credit lines over the last twenty-four months," Frank revealed. "They filed the enforcement motion in federal court an hour ago. Every personal account you have left is frozen."
Andrew’s coffee cup slipped from his trembling hands, spilling across his knees. "Thirty-five... million?"
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"They're taking your penthouse, your beach house in the Hamptons, and your private art collection," Frank said softly, closing the binder. "You don't have money for a defense, Andrew. In fact, you owe my firm forty thousand dollars in legal fees. I suggest you find a public defender."
Andrew slumped back into his chair, staring at the ceiling as the walls of his world collapsed completely, leaving him buried under the weight of his own hubris.
