Chapter 8
Andrew flinched. His jaw worked, his eyes darting to Gregory, who sat perfectly still, observing the room like a stone gargoyle.
“You set me up,” Andrew hissed, leaning forward, an ugly, desperate spark igniting in his eyes. “You orchestrated this. You gave me that money anonymously because you wanted to watch me climb high enough so you could yank the ladder out from under me! You wanted to humiliate me!”
“Andrew,” Celeste whispered, her voice cracking as she placed a hand on his forearm. “Stop. Please.”
“No! I won't stop!” Andrew pulled his arm away violently. “She’s sitting there acting like some benevolent patron! Look at her! She ran a little software shop while I built a commercial firm from nothing! She got lucky with some hospital contracts, and she used it to buy my dignity!”
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't lean forward. I didn't give him an ounce of the theatrical rage he was desperately hoping for to justify his own disgrace.
“Your firm didn't come from nothing, Andrew,” I said, my voice cutting through his volume with chilling precision. “It came from Dad’s equity line of credit, which he co-signed for you when you were twenty-eight. It came from Mom’s savings when you overextended your first office lease. And for the last three years, it came from my operating profits.”
I nodded toward Gregory.
Gregory opened the first binder, slid a single laminated document across the table, and tapped it with his pen.
“This is the financial summary of the Sloan Family Discretionary Trust from January of year one through December of this year,” Gregory said, his voice flat and clinical. “Total cash disbursements to date: six hundred and ninety-four thousand, two hundred and ten dollars.”
Andrew didn't look down at the paper. He couldn't bring himself to.
“Here is the itemized breakdown,” I continued, pointing to the columns. “Two hundred and eighty thousand dollars in residential rent subsidies for the penthouse on 4th Street. Ninety-six thousand dollars in commercial lease support for your advisory offices. Forty-four thousand dollars in vehicle subsidies. One hundred and twelve thousand dollars in direct vendor payments for client dinners, promotional events, and club memberships. And one hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars in private school tuition for Maisie and Poppy.”
Celeste covered her mouth with both hands. A small, ragged sob broke from her chest.
“You knew,” she whispered, looking sideways at her husband with an expression of profound, sickening horror. “You knew every single dollar. You told me the penthouse was a tax write-off negotiated by your corporate board. You told me the club membership was comped by the regional commercial association!”