Chapter 3 - The Assets Unravel
For Julian Sterling, the descent from high-society elite to complete insolvency took exactly seventy-two hours.
After being ejected from my building, Julian had taken a city bus—a humiliating first for him—to the luxury high-rise apartment he had rented for Chloe. The rent was $12,000 a month, a lease he had eagerly signed two months prior, assuming my bank accounts would cover it indefinitely.
When he arrived, the door was unlocked. The apartment was a disaster zone. Designer clothes were strewn across the hardwood floors, empty velvet jewelry boxes littered the kitchen island, and Chloe was frantically stuffing a Louis Vuitton trunk with cashmere sweaters.
“Chloe? What are you doing?” Julian asked, leaning against the doorframe, physically exhausted.
She didn't even look at him. “I’m leaving, Julian. I just got off the phone with my friend at The Obsidian Club. Everyone in the city knows. You’re completely broke. Worse than broke, you’re in debt to the club.”
“I’m going to fix it,” Julian lied, stepping into the room. “I just need a few days to get my lawyers to appeal the settlement. Clara played a trick, but it won't hold up in court. I just need you to cover me for a bit. Can we pawn that Cartier bracelet I bought you last month?”
Chloe stopped packing and slowly turned to look at him, her expression hardening into absolute disgust.
“Are you out of your mind? You want me to pawn my gifts to pay for your mistakes?” She laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “Julian, I didn't date you for your sparkling personality. I dated you because you flew me to Paris on a private jet. But it turns out, it wasn't your jet. It was your wife’s jet. You are nothing without her.”
“I left her for you!” Julian shouted, his desperation turning to anger.
“No, you got caught cheating, and she threw you out like garbage,” Chloe corrected him, zipping her suitcase shut. “And by the way, the landlord was here this morning. The first month's rent check bounced. You have forty-eight hours to vacate before they change the locks. Have a nice life, Julian.”
She wheeled her luggage past him, the scent of expensive perfume lingering in the air long after the door slammed shut.
Julian collapsed onto the pristine white sofa, burying his face in his hands. He was alone. The silence of the apartment was suffocating. He needed cash. He needed a lifeline.
He spent the next day visiting every high-end bank in Chicago where he thought he had standing. At Chase Private Client, the teller informed him that his name had been legally expunged from the accounts. At Goldman Sachs, the wealth manager refused to even come out of his office to see him.
By Friday afternoon, the reality of the promissory note he had signed at The Obsidian Club came crashing down.
Julian was sitting in a cheap diner, staring at a cup of black coffee he had paid for with loose change he found in his gym bag, when a man in a sharp gray suit slid into the booth across from him. The man didn't introduce himself. He didn't order anything.
“Mr. Sterling,” the man said quietly. “The Obsidian Club prefers swift resolutions. Your debt, with interest, now stands at two hundred and thirty thousand dollars. We have appraised the Aston Martin and the Patek watch. They cover roughly ninety thousand.”
“I’ll get the rest,” Julian said, his voice trembling. “Just give me a month.”
“You have until Monday,” the man replied, entirely unmoved. “If the funds are not wired to our offshore holding account by 5:00 PM, we will no longer pursue financial collection. We will pursue physical collateral. Do not make us look for you.”
The man stood up, adjusted his tie, and walked out of the diner.
May you like
Julian felt bile rise in his throat. He ran to the bathroom and threw up. He had played a high-stakes game of infidelity, arrogance, and greed, and he had lost everything. There was only one card left to play. One asset he hadn't touched.
He had to go back to Clara.
