Chapter 7 - The Desperation of Sloane
The boardroom battle was over before it began.
With the environmental fraud documents displayed on the seventy-five-inch monitors, Marcus Harrington’s legal team folded in less than fifteen minutes. Harrington had turned white as a sheet, clutched his chest, and was escorted from the building by security before the board could formally vote to strip Harrington Industries of all terminal operating rights.
Roman Raines was confirmed as sole trustee and majority voting chair of Raines Maritime.
Unchecked. Uncontested.
Victorious.
The celebration should have begun immediately, but the city had other plans.
It was nearly 8:00 PM when Clara stepped out of the private elevator at the Raines Penthouse on Lake Shore Drive. Roman was delayed at the corporate headquarters, signing the formal seizure papers with his legal division. He had sent Clara home ahead of him with two security guards.
The penthouse was dark.
Clara stepped into the foyer, slipping off her heels. “Vance?” she called out, noticing the security panel by the front door was flashing an amber warning light.
No answer.
A cold prickle of instinct crawled up Clara’s spine. The penthouse was usually bathed in warm ambient lighting, the soft classical music Roman preferred playing faintly through the hidden speaker system.
Tonight, there was only the sound of the wind screaming off Lake Michigan, rattling the enormous glass panes.
Clara took a step backward toward the elevator.
*Click.*
The lock on the elevator panel disengaged. The doors refused to open.
“Looking for your bodyguards?” a voice drifted from the darkened living room.
Clara spun around, her pulse skyrocketing.
Sloane Harrington stepped out from the shadows near the balcony doors.
She was unrecognizable from the polished socialite of twenty-four hours ago. Her emerald dress was gone, replaced by a rumpled designer coat. Her blonde hair was wild, her eyes hollow, bloodshot, and wide with the manic hysteria of a spoiled child whose entire world had just been obliterated.
In her right hand, Sloane held a small, silver snub-nosed revolver.
“Sloane,” Clara said, forcing her voice into absolute stillness, raising her hands slowly to chest level. “Put the gun down.”
“You ruined us,” Sloane whispered, her voice wavering between a shriek and a sob. “My father is in the hospital. The federal marshals are at our house right now. Everything... my trust, my family name, my entire life... gone! Because of a dirty, little Bridgeport rat!”
Clara glanced behind Sloane. The heavy sliding glass doors leading to the eighty-fourth-floor terrace were wide open. The frigid October wind was howling through the room, whipping the sheer white curtains into wild, ghostly shapes.
“Your father ruined your family, Sloane,” Clara said carefully, taking a slow half-step to the left, keeping her eyes fixed on the trembling barrel of the gun. “He committed corporate fraud twenty years ago. I just found the papers.”
“You shouldn't have been looking!” Sloane screamed, stepping forward, the gun shaking violently in her grip. “You weren't supposed to be here! Roman was supposed to marry *me*! We grew up together! Our families belonged together! He took you out of the gutter just to humiliate me!”
“He didn't marry me to humiliate you,” Clara said softly.
“Then why did he do it?!” Sloane shrieked. “Why you?! You have nothing! You *are* nothing!”
“Because she has something you will never understand, Sloane,” a deep, lethal voice cut through the howling wind.
Sloane jumped, spinning toward the entrance.
Roman stood in the foyer.
May you like
He had bypassed the elevator and come up through the private fire-stairwell. He was without a coat, his suit drenched from the rain outside, his eyes burning with a terrifying, murderous calm.
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