Chapter 9 - The Dominoes Fall
By three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon, the news broke across every financial news outlet in the mid-Atlantic region.
CALDWELL URBAN DEVELOPMENT IN DEFAULT; EASTERN STATE BANK INITIATES IMMEDIATE ASSET FORECLOSURE.
The stock price of Caldwell Development crashed eighty-eight percent in forty-five minutes.
By four o'clock, federal regulators and civil marshals arrived at the Caldwell corporate headquarters on Pratt Street, locking the glass doors and serving notice of immediate liquidation.
Sloane Mercer was sitting in her salon appointment getting her nails done when her phone began ringing incessantly.
It was her talent manager from Los Angeles.
"Sloane!" the manager screamed through the speaker so loudly the nail technician stopped working. "What the hell did you do?!"
"What are you talking about?!" Sloane asked, turning red. "Did the reality show contract come through?"
"The reality show is canceled!" the manager yelled. "The production company just pulled the offer! In fact, every brand sponsor you have has canceled their contracts effective five minutes ago! Rainer Maritime's legal team just filed a twenty-million-dollar defamation and intentional assault lawsuit against you personally in federal court!"
Sloane’s phone slipped out of her manicured hand, crashing onto the marble floor of the salon, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of cracks.
Ten minutes later, two city police officers walked into the salon, carrying an active arrest warrant for misdemeanor assault and civil harassment signed by the State’s Attorney's office.
As Sloane was led out of the luxury salon in steel handcuffs, weeping frantically while dozens of passersby filmed her on their phones, she finally realized that the internet audience she loved so much was now recording her destruction with the same enthusiasm she had used on Grace.
Meanwhile, at the Caldwell estate in Green Spring Valley, moving vans were already lined up along the driveway.
Harrison Caldwell sat on the front steps of his marble mansion, holding a glass of cheap whiskey, staring blankly at the lawn where bank appraisers were placing auction tags on his vintage sports cars.
Evan walked out of the front door carrying a single canvas duffel bag. His luxury watch was gone—sold an hour ago to pay for a private defense attorney. His designer clothes looked rumpled, and his face was hollow, aged ten years in five hours.
"Dad..." Evan whispered, his voice trembling. "Dad, the lawyer says if I plead guilty to the assault charges, I might only get ninety days in county jail..."
Harrison didn't turn his head. He didn't even look at his son.
"Get off my property, Evan," Harrison said, his voice flat, dead, and entirely empty of emotion.
"Dad, please—"
May you like
"I have no son," Harrison whispered, staring at the empty driveway. "I have no money, I have no company, and I have no home. Because I let you believe the world belonged to you."
Evan stood alone on the gravel drive as a cold rain began to fall once again, soaking through his thin shirt, leaving him with nothing but his duffel bag and the terrifying realization of what he had done.
