Chapter 6 - The Freefall
The dismantling of the Whitmore empire was swift, surgical, and absolute.
By midday, federal bankruptcy notices were plastered across the glass doors of Whitmore Development headquarters downtown. Financial news outlets flashed emergency banner headlines across cable news networks: LOCAL CONSTRUCTION GIANT WHITMORE DEVELOPMENT COLLAPSES AFTER SUDDEN DEBT CALL BY MYSTERIOUS MAJORITY INVESTOR STERLING CAPITAL.
Shares in subsidiary contractors plummeted to zero within hours of the opening bell. Creditors swarmed the corporate parking lot like vultures, towing company vehicles, seizing office equipment, and locking executives out of their digital databases.
Daniel and Patricia returned to the suburban house by late afternoon, only to find that the mortgage—which had been co-signed and heavily subsidized by corporate operational guarantees—had defaulted alongside the company accounts. An eviction notice fluttered brightly against the front door like a neon sign of total defeat.
I had already arranged for a moving crew to pack up my personal belongings and Lily’s nursery items, transferring them safely to one of my private penthouses overlooking Lake Michigan. I did not return to the suburban house. I had no desire to ever set foot in the place where I had been held down against the cold bathroom floor.
Instead, I watched the final chapters of their downfall from the fifty-first floor of Sterling Tower, sipping green tea while reviewing financial summaries with Marcus Vance.
“The residential property has been listed for immediate foreclosure auction,” Marcus reported, laying a final dossier on my desk. “Daniel Whitmore has attempted to contact our legal department fourteen times today, begging for an audience. His mother has checked into a budget motel on the outskirts of the city after her credit cards were permanently declined.”
I looked down at the dossier, noting the neat, professional typography. “And the divorce filings?”
“Drawn up and ready for your signature,” Marcus replied, sliding a sleek black leather folder across the desk. “Grounds include physical abuse, endangerment of a minor, and irreconcilable differences. Our legal team has already secured a temporary restraining order prohibiting Daniel from coming within five hundred yards of you or Miss Lily.”
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I opened the folder, picked up a heavy Montblanc fountain pen, and signed my name with firm, unwavering strokes: Evelyn Sterling.
“File them immediately,” I said.
