Chapter 6 - The Descent
Down in the Loop district of Chicago, the rain was coming down in sheets, blurring the towering skyscrapers into gray blurs. Richard Sterling stood outside the glass doors of Sterling Capital, staring in disbelief at the heavy steel padlock that now secured the main entrance.
A handwritten notice from the municipal court was taped to the glass: PROPERTY SEIZED UNDER JUDICIAL ORDER. ASSET FREEZE ENFORCED BY CRAWFORD HOLDINGS LLC.
"This is illegal!" Richard screamed at a passing security guard, his expensive navy suit ruined by the relentless downpour. "Call Harrison Vance! Call the board! I own this company!"
"You own a stack of bad debts and a federal audit, buddy," the guard muttered, turning away without a second glance.
In less than forty-eight hours, Richard’s entire universe had dissolved. The banks had recalled his personal mortgages; his credit cards had been declined at every luxury retailer in the city; and his high-society associates—the very people who had once laughed at his jokes and sought his favor—had suddenly developed total amnesia when his calls came in. Eleanor Crawford’s legal team had ensured that every business partner, investor, and creditor knew that associating with Richard Sterling meant instant blacklisting from the entire hospitality and real estate sector.
Desperate, cold, and soaked to the bone, Richard pulled his sodden smartphone from his pocket. His screen flickered with dozens of missed notifications: foreclosure notices on his penthouse condominium, repossession warnings for his sports car, and a formal divorce petition filed by Crawford legal counsel on my behalf, demanding full dissolution of marriage with zero alimony and a restraining order barring him within one mile of me or any Crawford property.
With trembling fingers, he dialed my number—the personal cell phone he had insulted, monitored, and eventually tried to confiscate.
It rang four times before a calm, steady voice answered.
"Waverly," Richard choked out, his arrogance entirely shattered, replaced by a pathetic, whining desperation. "Waverly, please. You have to listen to me. This has gone too far. Your mother—Eleanor—she’s insane, she’s destroying everything I’ve built. We’re husband and wife, Wavie. Please, talk to her. Call off her lawyers."
I sat in the plush leather armchair of the Grand Belmont penthouse, looking out over the rain-slicked Chicago skyline while Brenda adjusted a soft cashmere blanket over my knees. My voice was as calm and steady as glass.
"You told me to pick up my trash and get out, Richard," I said softly into the receiver. "You told me I had no family, no money, and nowhere to go. You used my deepest wounds as a weapon because you thought I was helpless."
"I made a mistake!" he sobbed, his voice cracking. "I was stressed, I didn't mean it! We have a child coming, Waverly! Think of the baby!"
"I am thinking of the baby," I replied, my voice hardening. "That is why you will never see either of us again. My mother’s lawyers will handle all future communication. Do not call this number again, Richard. If you do, the next person you speak to won't be a lawyer—it will be a federal marshal."
"Waverly, wait—!"
I hung up the phone, sliding it across the polished mahogany table. I didn't block his number; I wanted him to stare at the screen day after day, watching his life remain completely dead.
Eleanor walked into the study, holding a warm cup of herbal tea and a thick leather-bound photo album from the Crawford estate archives. She looked at me with deep, fierce pride.
"Was that him?" she asked gently.
May you like
"That was him," I said, looking up at her with a smile. "He’s finished."
Eleanor set the tea down, opened the photo album to a page filled with pictures of a smiling baby girl running through expansive green lawns, and looked at me with unconditional love. "Good. Now, let’s focus on the future. We have a nursery to finish, and a very important little person waiting to meet their grandmother."
