Chapter 7 - The Scraps of an Empire
Back in New York, the sun rose over a grey, unforgiving skyline, bringing no warmth to Marcus Vance.
He sat on the curb outside his former penthouse on Park Avenue, a single cardboard box holding his remaining personal effects sitting beside his worn-out leather shoes. His designer suits, his luxury watches, his sports cars, his bank accounts—everything had been stripped away by federal marshals and international arbitration lawyers acting on behalf of the mysterious Devereux Trust.
The doorman who had once bowed obsequiously whenever Marcus walked past now refused to even look in his direction, standing rigidly by the brass-trimmed doors as if Marcus didn't exist.
A rusted, dented sedan pulled up to the curb. The passenger window rolled down with a screeching sound, revealing Arthur Pendelton, looking haggard, unshaven, and ruined.
"Get in, Marcus," Arthur muttered bitterly. "If we hurry, we might make it to the bankruptcy court before the morning docket fills up."
Marcus slowly stood up, picking up his cardboard box. His limbs felt heavy, his spirit completely crushed. He climbed into the passenger seat of the battered car, the doors clunking shut with a hollow, tinny sound.
As the car pulled away into the heavy Manhattan traffic, Marcus caught a reflection of himself in the glass of a passing bus shelter. He looked old, defeated, and hollow. The great Marcus Vance—the man who thought he was conquering New York—was now nothing more than a ghost wandering through the ruins of his own arrogance.
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He finally understood what Elara had meant when she said he had no idea who she was.
She hadn't just been a wife he discarded. She had been the eye of a storm he was too blind to see.
