Chapter 4 - The Delusion of David Hughes
On Saturday morning, sunlight flooded the Lincoln Park townhouse, glinting off the dusting of fresh snow on the patio.
David Hughes woke up in his king-sized bed feeling lighter than he had in years.
Chloe was already awake, sitting at Clara’s antique vanity in a silk robe she had found in the closet, experimenting with Clara’s high-end hair serums.
"Did you sleep well, baby?" Chloe cooed, turning around with a pout. "The mattress is a little firm, honestly. We need to get a Tempur-Pedic. And this wallpaper has to go. It looks like an English grandmother lived here."
"Whatever you want," David said, stretching luxuriously. "We’ll hire a decorator next week. Right after the Harrington presentation."
He got out of bed, slipped into his velvet slippers, and walked down to the kitchen. For a brief second, habit made him expect the aroma of fresh Colombian coffee and buttermilk pancakes, which Clara always made on Saturday mornings.
Instead, the kitchen was cold and dark. The Dutch oven still sat on the stove, the congealed layer of fat over the beef bourguignon looking repulsive in the daylight. Two dirty scotch glasses sat by the sink.
David frowned, feeling a momentary prick of irritation. *She could have at least loaded the dishwasher before leaving,* he thought, shaking his head at Clara’s petty vindictiveness.
He spent ten minutes wrestling with the espresso machine—a complicated Italian manual lever machine that Clara had always operated for him—and ended up with a cup of bitter, lukewarm sludge. He dumped it into the sink with a curse.
"David!" Chloe called down from upstairs. "What should I do with all these boxes in the spare room? There’s a bunch of baby stuff here. Crib parts, clothing, strollers."
David walked up the stairs, irritated. He looked into the nursery. Clara had spent five months painting a mural of a forest on the accent wall, with woodland creatures nestled in birch trees. Boxes of baby clothes, organized by month, were stacked neatly against the baseboard.
"Call a junk removal service," David said, waving a hand dismissively. "Tell them to take all of it. If she wants it, she can have her father pay to store it."
"Good," Chloe purred, wrapping her arms around his neck, the diamond Love bracelet pressing coolly against his nape. "I want to turn this into a walk-in dressing room anyway. You’re going to be a partner at Meridian, David. We can’t have clutter."
David smiled, leaning down to kiss her. "You’re right. We’re looking forward, not backward."
He spent the rest of the weekend in his home office, rehearsing the Riverfront pitch. Every time he clicked through the slide deck, he marveled at the brilliance of the financial models. The secondary bond structuring was sheer genius; the way the tax incentives balanced the construction debt service was poetry.
*I really outdid myself on this one,* David thought, genuinely believing his own lie. He had read the slides so many times over the past two months that he had completely erased the memory of Clara sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes red from fatigue, correcting his broken formulas. In his mind, he had conceived the idea, and she had merely acted as a glorified typist.
On Sunday night, David took Chloe to dinner at Gibson’s Bar & Steakhouse on Rush Street. He ordered a bone-in ribeye, a bottle of Caymus Cabernet, and held court at a corner booth, tipping the sommelier generously on a credit card that was already nearing its limit.
"Tomorrow morning is history, Chloe," David said, clinking his glass against hers. "Harrington Group is the biggest fish in the Midwest. When Richard Harrington signs off on this deal, Meridian gets a fifteen-million-dollar advisory fee. My cut will be at least two million. I’m buying the Bentley we looked at."
"And the Cartier necklace to match my bracelet?" Chloe asked, batting her eyelashes.
"Consider it done," David grinned.
He didn't think about Clara once. He didn't wonder where she was sleeping, whether she had enough to eat, or if the freezing weather had affected the baby. In David’s calculation, Clara had served her purpose: she had kept his home clean, typed his notes, and provided a stable domestic backdrop while he climbed. Now that he had reached the summit, she was simply surplus baggage to be discarded.
At 7:30 AM on Monday, David stood before the full-length mirror in his bespoke three-piece navy suit from Syd Jerome, his silk tie knotted in an immaculate half-Windsor. He splashed Tom Ford cologne on his jaw, checked his Rolex Submariner, and grabbed his leather presentation folio.
"Wish me luck," he told Chloe, who was still lounging in bed.
"You don't need luck, baby," she said through a yawn. "You’re a shark. Go eat them alive."
David drove his Porsche downtown, the engine roaring through the icy canyons of Michigan Avenue. He parked in the underground garage of Harrington Tower, feeling an electric thrill run through his veins as he looked up at the towering glass spire.
He took the high-speed elevator to the 50th-floor executive conference suite.
The managing partner of Meridian Capital, Arthur Vance (no relation to Marcus Vance, though Arthur desperately wished there were), was already pacing the reception lobby, looking nervous.
"Hughes," Arthur said, grabbing David’s arm. "Listen to me. This isn't a normal pitch. Richard Harrington himself is sitting in on this meeting."
David’s heart hammered against his ribs, but he forced a confident smirk. "I thought Harrington never attends preliminary partner pitches."
"He doesn't," Arthur whispered, wiping sweat from his forehead despite the air-conditioned chill. "His office called my cell at six o'clock this morning. He demanded to review the lead presentation personally. If you screw this up, Hughes, neither of us will ever work in commercial finance on the North American continent again."
"Relax, Arthur," David said, patting his boss’s shoulder with breezy arrogance. "I built this model from the ground up. I know every single decimal point. By lunch, Harrington will be writing our retainer."
The heavy double doors of Boardroom A swung open.
An executive secretary with ice-gray hair and a severe black suit stepped out.
"Gentlemen," she said, her voice clipped. "Mr. Harrington and the executive committee are ready for you."
May you like
David took a deep breath, adjusted his cuffs, and stepped across the threshold into the lion’s den.
***
