Chapter 3: The Public Execution at Terminal 4
Cruising at thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic, the cabin lights dimmed to a soothing twilight blue. The champagne was beginning to warm my blood, eroding the icy tension that had gripped my spine for six months.
I refreshed the social media feeds. The internet is a brutally efficient surveillance apparatus, and Julian Croft was currently its primary target.
A live stream popped up on my timeline, broadcasting from JFK Terminal 4. The viewer count was ticking past two hundred thousand.
I tapped the screen, expanding the video. There he was. The untouchable sovereign of the Croft Corporation, reduced to a desperate, panicked animal. He was sprinting through the expansive departure hall. His custom jacket was missing. His silk tie was violently askew, slung over his shoulder like a hangman’s noose. His hair, usually styled with architectural precision, was plastered to his forehead with sweat.
He was shoving past tourists, knocking over a stanchion. The microphone on the streamer’s phone picked up the murmurs of the crowd.
“Isn’t that the cheater from Twitter?” “Oh my god, it’s Julian Croft! Get the camera up!” I watched him reach gate B23. The gate was a desolate, empty expanse. The agent was already organizing her departure manifests. I watched Julian’s chest heave as he screamed something at the woman, his arms gesturing wildly toward the tarmac. The agent shook her head, pointing up at the digital display. Gate Closed. A dark, profound satisfaction coiled in my gut.
My phone buzzed. A text from Ms. Sharma.
“Mr. Davies handed him a burner phone. I delivered your message, Evelyn.” I could see it happening live on the stream. Davies, having chased his boss to the airport, tentatively extended a glowing smartphone to Julian. Julian snatched it, pressing it to his ear.
I knew exactly what Sharma was telling him in that moment. I had drafted the script myself.
‘She said that for three years, she cooked for you, but you never once sat down for a proper meal. She said she threw out the dinner she made you tonight, and from now on, you will never get to eat it again. Even if you begged for it.’
On the screen, Julian’s hand slowly detached from his ear. The burner phone slipped from his grasp, clattering against the polished tiles.
He turned his bloodshot eyes toward the massive, floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the concourse. Outside, my plane was a distant cluster of blinking navigation lights, ascending into the suffocating blackness of the night sky.
The live chat on the side of the video was a waterfall of text. Pathetic. Bankrupt him. He missed it. And then, the golden boy of New York City broke.
Julian’s knees buckled. He collapsed onto the cold marble of the airport floor, a dull thud that seemed to echo even through the muted audio of the stream. He didn’t bow his head. He remained upright on his knees, staring out at the empty runway, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“He is kneeling,” Davies texted me, a photograph attached to the message confirming the live stream’s view. “I showed him your private Instagram. The one with all the meals. He saw the distance tracker. 5,738 miles. He is completely broken.”
I locked my phone, sliding it into the pocket of my cashmere cardigan. Three minutes of kneeling on an airport floor did not absolve him of one thousand and ninety-five days of emotional starvation.
Let the marble bruise his knees. I was finally breathing free air.
Chapter 4: The Matriarch and the Mistress
While I slept somewhere over the Atlantic, the financial and social bedrock of Manhattan was experiencing a catastrophic seismic event.
When I awoke, the scent of fresh espresso wafted through the first-class cabin. I connected to the Wi-Fi. Ms. Sharma had sent a comprehensive, heavily encrypted dossier outlining the night’s carnage.
“Mission Accomplished. Funds transferred to Mr. Davies,” her initial message read.
The Croft Corporation headquarters had transformed into a war room at 4:00 AM. Harrison Croft had suffered a severe hypertensive crisis the moment the stock commenced its freefall. He was currently stabilized in the ICU, leaving the empire in the ruthless, manicured hands of Julian’s mother, Catherine Croft.
Five billion dollars in market capitalization had evaporated before the opening bell.
But the true spectacle unfolded in the VIP wing of Lenox Hill. Davies had remained on-site long enough to record the audio of the confrontation, forwarding it to Sharma as an insurance policy. I pressed play, listening to the destruction of my replacement.
The heavy click of Catherine Croft’s designer heels echoed through the hospital room. Natalia Rossi, exhausted but undoubtedly basking in her perceived victory, greeted her.
“Mother,” Natalia’s voice murmured, weak but laced with smug entitlement.
“Do not dare address me with that title,” Catherine’s voice sliced through the audio like a guillotine blade. “You do not possess the clearance.”
I listened as Catherine demanded to see the infant. After confirming the Croft lineage in the child’s features, she unleashed hell.
