Chapter 8 - THE MOTHER-IN-LAW’S RUIN
While the drama at the Plaza Hotel was dominating global news headlines, Marjorie Mercer was sitting comfortably on the sofa in the Greenwich mansion, nursing her swollen cheek with a bag of frozen peas and drinking expensive wine.
She was still fuming with rage over the slap Clara had given her earlier.
“That ungrateful, penniless little bitch,” Marjorie muttered to herself, taking a deep sip of wine. “Wait until Grant comes home. I’ll make sure he throws her out onto the street without a single cent! I’ll make sure she never sees Emma again!”
Suddenly, the silence of the mansion was shattered by the loud, terrifying sounds of heavy boots stomping up the front porch steps.
The front doors were kicked open with a violent bang.
Marjorie jumped up, spilling her wine across the sofa. “What on earth?! Who dares break into my son’s house—”
Four tall men in black suits carrying heavy clipboards and eviction notices stepped into the foyer, led by a sharp-looking female attorney carrying a leather briefcase. Behind them were four heavy-duty moving men carrying moving boxes.
“What is the meaning of this?!” Marjorie shrieked, adjusting her mink coat. “Do you know whose house this is? This is the Mercer estate! My son is Grant Mercer!”
The female attorney walked forward, looking at Marjorie with cold professional contempt.
“Correction, Mrs. Mercer,” the attorney said smoothly. “This was the Mercer estate. As of twenty minutes ago, the deed to this property, along with all contents inside, has been fully repossessed by Whitmore Real Estate Holdings due to complete default on the underlying mortgage notes.”
Marjorie blinked, her brain short-circuiting. “What mortgage notes?! Grant owns this house!”
“Grant’s firm leased this property through a shell company owned entirely by Clara Whitmore,” the attorney explained, pulling out a legal document. “You have exactly ten minutes to gather your personal belongings and vacate the premises.”
“Vacate?!” Marjorie screamed, her voice cracking. “You can't throw me out! Where is Grant? Call my son right now!”
The attorney smiled thinly, turning on a tablet and playing a live news broadcast on NBC.
The news anchor’s voice rang through the foyer: “Breaking News: Hedge fund manager Grant Mercer has just been arrested by federal agents at the Metropolitan Investors Gala for a massive forty-million-dollar Ponzi scheme and corporate fraud. His firm, Mercer Capital, has declared total bankruptcy. His accomplice and mistress, Savannah Pierce, was also arrested on child assault and fraud charges…”
On the screen, high-definition footage showed Grant weeping frantically in handcuffs while being shoved into a police cruiser, followed by footage of Savannah covered in champagne and broken glass.
Marjorie’s knees buckled. She collapsed onto the sofa, her face turning green. “No… no, no, no! Grant! My money!”
“Speaking of money, Mrs. Mercer,” the attorney continued, pulling out a second thick legal document. “We have also received a court-ordered lien against all your personal assets. The Atlantic City casino syndicates to whom you owe four point two million dollars have sold your debt to Whitmore Debt Management.”
Marjorie looked up, her eyes filled with absolute, horrifying panic. “Whitmore…?”
“Clara Whitmore now owns your debt,” the attorney said coldly. “And she is demanding immediate, full repayment. Since you cannot pay, all your jewelry, your furs, your bank accounts, and your vehicles are being seized right now.”
Two moving men stepped forward and immediately snatched the mink coat off Marjorie’s shoulders. Another man reached over and pulled the expensive diamond ring off her finger.
“Hey! That’s mine! Give it back!” Marjorie shrieked, flailing her arms like a crazy person.
“Out,” the lead security officer commanded, grabbing Marjorie by the arm and dragging her toward the front door.
“Let go of me! You can't do this to me! I am a woman of class!” Marjorie wailed as she was pushed out the front doors into the pouring, freezing rain.
The heavy oak doors slammed shut in her face, locking automatically.
Marjorie stood on the wet stone steps in her soaked blouse and slacks, without shoes, without her coat, without her jewelry, and without a single dollar to her name. The rain drenched her hair, running down her swollen, bruised cheek where Clara had slapped her.
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She looked down at the driveway. There was a small, dirty puddle near the steps. Floating in the mud was the cheap red thread bracelet Grant had given Clara years ago—the one Clara had snapped and thrown into Emma’s blood.
Marjorie collapsed onto her knees in the mud, clutching the wet thread, weeping pathetically into the cold storm, completely ruined.
