Chapter 2 - The View Through the Porthole Glass
Every muscle in Nathaniel's body locked into place as the brass bell above the diner door jingled and Vivian Caldwell stepped inside, her two-carat Whitfield diamond engagement ring still glittering boldly on her left hand.
Wait—the man holding the door open for her and brushing a stray raindrop from her cheek was Julian Sterling, the ruthless managing partner of Sterling Capital and Nathaniel's bitterest rival on Wall Street!
Three days ago, Vivian had told Nathaniel she was staying inside her mother's Fifth Avenue apartment with a migraine to pray for his financial recovery, yet here she was two hours north of the city on her way to a luxury vineyard resort with the exact vulture who had shorted Whitfield Holdings stock thirty minutes before the crash hit the news.
Before Vivian could turn her head toward the counter and recognize the man standing six feet away in a damp white canvas apron, Clara Bennett moved with lightning speed.
Reading the sudden, lethal pallor on Nathaniel's face in half a second, Clara stepped squarely in front of his broad chest, reached behind his waist to yank his apron strings loose, and shoved him firmly backward through the swinging aluminum doors into the kitchen!
Stay behind that steel prep table and do not make a sound, Clara whispered fiercely through the crack of the door before smoothing her hair, picking up two laminated menus, and walking out with a bright, welcoming smile.
Nathaniel stood in the shadowed kitchen behind the round six-inch glass porthole of the swinging door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a sledgehammer as he watched Clara guide Vivian and Julian into the corner leather booth right beside the kitchen pass-through window.
Because the stainless-steel warming shelf between the kitchen and the corner booth had its sliding metal shutter propped open an inch to vent steam, every word spoken at Table One drifted straight into the quiet kitchen.
Are you sure there isn't a single French bistro within twenty miles of here, Julian, Vivian complained lightly, wiping the spotless tabletop with a Wet Wipe from her Hermès handbag before setting her elbows down.
Relax, darling, the private chef at the Millbrook Vineyard estate is preparing white truffles for us at seven, Julian replied smoothly, reaching across the table to cover Vivian's jeweled hand with his own.
I had to stop in this miserable little town so my real estate bailiffs could serve the final default notices down the street before five o'clock, and besides, we have plenty to celebrate after this morning's clearing-house report.
Nathaniel's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached as he watched his fiancée turn her palm upward and lace her fingers through Julian Sterling's.
Tell me the forensic accountants finally found where Nathaniel hid the secondary Cayman reserves, Vivian said, leaning forward eagerly as Clara arrived at the booth with two glasses of ice water and a plate of warm cinnamon rolls.
Even better than that, sweetheart, Julian murmured once Clara stepped back to the counter register, his voice dropping low though still crystal clear through the kitchen vent.
Thanks to the encrypted master passcode you copied off Nathaniel's laptop screen the night before your engagement party, my traders didn't just short his public stock—we routed a secondary margin call through his Horizon Ridge shelter this morning that just triggered a real federal seizure of his private trusts!
Behind the kitchen door, the blood in Nathaniel's veins turned to liquid ice.
Vivian hadn't just abandoned him when she thought he went broke—she had stolen his private key codes a week before the engagement party and handed them to Julian Sterling to help orchestrate his ruin from the inside!
Wait until he realizes the engagement ring on my finger is going to pay for our honeymoon in St. Barts, Vivian laughed softly, tossing a single crumpled one-dollar bill onto the table as she and Julian stood up without even touching the cinnamon rolls Clara had set down.
Keep the change, sweetheart, and next time try wearing an apron that doesn't smell like fry oil, Vivian told Clara with a condescending smirk before sweeping out the front door toward the waiting Maybach.
As the black luxury car sped away down Main Street, Nathaniel pushed through the swinging kitchen doors, his gray eyes dark with a terrifying, silent storm that made the air in the diner feel ten degrees colder.
Before he could reach into his pocket for his encrypted burner phone to call Howard Ellis, Clara walked calmly around the counter, picked up Vivian's crumpled one-dollar bill by the corner as if it were a dead rat, and dropped a thick yellow legal envelope onto the laminate counter directly in front of Nathaniel.
May you like
You didn't drop your watch in a pawnshop, and your name isn't Nate Miller—you are Nathaniel Whitfield, Clara said quietly, locking her fearless hazel eyes straight onto his stunned face.
And before you go chasing after your cheating fiancée, you should read this foreclosure writ Julian Sterling's lawyers served me at nine o'clock this morning—because the predatory shell company that just seized the mortgage on my diner and half of Millbrook has your personal signature printed right on the bottom line.
