The cab dropped me off three blocks from
Marcus's office because that's all the cash I had left. Three blocks in
Manhattan might as well have been three miles when you're carrying the weight
of complete financial ruin and public humiliation. Every step felt like walking
through quicksand, my legs heavy with the kind of exhaustion that comes not
from physical exertion but from having your entire reality reconstructed in the
span of an hour.
The paparazzi hadn't followed me,
thankfully. They'd gotten their shots of Alexander Kane, pharmaceutical mogul,
being served divorce papers on the street like some kind of deadbeat. That
image would be on the front page of the Post tomorrow, probably with a headline
like "KANE'S PAIN" or something equally clever and devastating.
My phone had been buzzing constantly
during the cab ride; Marcus calling, unknown numbers that were probably
reporters, and a few that I recognized as business associates who'd undoubtedly
heard the news and wanted to either gawk at the wreckage or distance themselves
from the scandal. I'd turned it off somewhere around Fifty-seventh Street,
unable to bear the sound of my life falling apart in real time.
The security guard in Marcus's building
lobby looked at me with poorly concealed pity as I signed in for the second
time that day. Word traveled fast in Manhattan's legal circles, and I was
probably already the subject of whispered conversations in every law firm from
Midtown to Wall Street. The pharmaceutical king who lost his kingdom in a
single day.
Marcus was waiting for me when the
elevator opened on the fortieth floor, his face etched with the kind of concern
usually reserved for terminal patients. He didn't say anything, just placed a
hand on my shoulder and guided me back to his office. The folders were still
scattered across his conference table where I'd left them, crime scene evidence
of the systematic destruction of Alexander Kane.
"Drink?" he asked, moving toward
the bar cart in the corner of his office.
"It's not even noon," I said
automatically, then laughed at the absurdity of worrying about drinking
etiquette when my entire life had just imploded. "Yeah. Whatever you've
got."
He poured two glasses of something amber
and expensive, probably older than my marriage and definitely worth more than
the contents of my checking account. The irony wasn't lost on me, I was about
to become the kind of man who couldn't afford good whiskey, but here I was
drinking it in the office of Manhattan's most expensive lawyer.
"The reporters," Marcus said,
settling into the chair across from me. "How bad was it?"
"Bad enough." I took a sip of
the whiskey, letting it burn away some of the numbness that had settled in my
chest. "They knew everything. About the divorce, about the company, about
being locked out of my own building. How is that possible?"
Marcus's expression darkened.
"Someone fed them the story. Someone who wanted to make sure your
humiliation was as public as possible."
Elena. Or Roman. Or both of them, sitting
somewhere laughing about the man who'd been stupid enough to trust them
completely. The image made my stomach clench, but I pushed it down. I needed to
understand the full scope of what they'd done before I could even begin to
process the emotional devastation.
"Show me everything," I said.
"All of it. I need to know exactly how they did this."
Marcus hesitated. "Alex, maybe you
should take some time to…."
"Show me everything," I
repeated, my voice harder than I'd intended. "I spent ten years building
something from nothing. I deserve to know exactly how they tore it down."
He nodded slowly and began pulling
documents from the folders, spreading them across the table like a roadmap of
betrayal. Bank statements, corporate filings, transfer authorizations, each one
a small piece of a larger picture that was more devastating than I could have
imagined.
"Let's start with the personal
accounts," Marcus said, his voice taking on the clinical tone he used when
discussing particularly ugly divorces. "Elena had power of attorney, as
you know. Initially, she used it for legitimate expenses; household bills,
charity donations, the usual things a spouse would handle."
He showed me statements from six months
ago, everything looking normal. Mortgage payments, utilities, Elena's credit
card bills for what looked like reasonable amounts. Nothing that would have
raised any red flags.
"But three months ago, things
changed," he continued, sliding newer statements across the table.
"Small transfers at first, five thousand here, ten thousand there. Always
to different accounts, always with legitimate-sounding explanations in the memo
lines. 'Investment research,' 'Real estate consultation,' 'Legal fees.'"
I studied the statements, seeing my money
bleeding away in tiny cuts. Individually, none of the transfers seemed
significant. Together, they represented hundreds of thousands of dollars.
"I never saw these," I said.
"The statements go to Elena. She handles the household finances."
"Convenient," Marcus said dryly.
"The transfers accelerated two weeks ago, right after you left for Japan.
That's when the real damage was done."
The next set of documents made my hands
shake. My investment portfolio, forty-seven million dollars accumulated over ten
years of careful planning and aggressive growth, liquidated in a matter of
days. Stock sales, bond redemptions, mutual fund withdrawals, all authorized by
Elena's power of attorney and all converted to cryptocurrency within hours of
the sales.
"Cryptocurrency?" I asked.
"Untraceable once it moves
offshore," Marcus explained. "Elena transferred it to digital wallets
registered to shell companies in the Cayman Islands. From there, it could go
anywhere; Switzerland, Singapore, anywhere banking privacy laws make recovery
nearly impossible."
"And the company?" I asked,
though I already knew the answer would destroy what was left of my faith in
human nature.
Marcus pulled out a thick folder labeled
"Kane Industries Corporate Restructuring." Inside were documents I
recognized, papers I'd signed over the past two years as part of what Roman had
described as "routine corporate governance updates" and "tax
optimization strategies."
"Roman's been planning this for a
long time," Marcus said quietly. "Every document you signed, every
restructuring amendment, every board resolution, it was all designed to
centralize control in a way that could be triggered at the right moment."
I flipped through the papers, seeing my
own signature on document after document that I'd signed without reading
carefully. Roman had always been the detail guy, the one who handled the legal
minutiae while I focused on the big picture. I'd trusted him to protect our
interests.
Instead, he'd been systematically
positioning himself to steal everything we'd built.
"The Takahashi merger was the perfect
cover," Marcus continued. "While you were focused on closing the
deal, Roman filed emergency corporate restructuring papers citing 'shareholder
protection protocols' in case of hostile takeover attempts. Except the only
hostile takeover was his own."
"How much?" I asked, my voice
barely above a whisper. "How much of the company does he control
now?"
"Eighty-seven percent," Marcus
said. "You retain thirteen percent as founder's shares, but Roman controls
the board, the operations, and most importantly, the profits from the Takahashi
deal."
Twelve billion dollars. The biggest
success of my career, the deal that was supposed to secure my family's future
for generations, was now going to fund the man who'd destroyed my family.
"There's more," Marcus said, and
I wanted to laugh at the impossibility of there being anything worse. "The
penthouse, the house in the Hamptons, the art collection, Elena filed
quit-claim deeds transferring everything to joint ownership, then immediately
transferred her half to a trust she controls."
"So I own half of everything and
nothing at the same time," I said.
"Exactly. And with the divorce
proceedings, she's asking for half of your remaining assets as part of the
settlement. If she gets it, you'll be left with essentially nothing."
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the
ceiling of Marcus's office. Somewhere above us, in towers just like this one,
Roman was probably meeting with the board of directors of my own company,
explaining how Alexander Kane had suffered a "personal breakdown"
that made him unfit to lead. Elena was probably with her divorce attorney,
crafting a narrative about an absent husband who cared more about business than
his marriage.
Both of them were counting money that used
to be mine.
"The security footage," I said
suddenly, remembering Marcus's earlier mention of evidence. "You said
there was footage of the theft?"
Marcus's expression grew even more grave,
which I hadn't thought was possible. "Alex, I need you to understand
something. What I'm about to show you... it's not just evidence of financial
crimes. It's evidence of how long they've been planning this, and how little
they thought of you while they were doing it."
He moved to his computer, pulling up what
looked like a security system interface. Multiple camera feeds from various
locations; my apartment, Roman's office, restaurants, hotels.
"I hired a private investigator last
month when some of the financial irregularities first came to light,"
Marcus explained. "I thought Elena might be having an affair, maybe being
blackmailed. I never imagined... this."
The screen showed a grid of video
thumbnails, each one timestamped over the past several months. Some were from
security cameras in public places, others looked like they'd been taken with
hidden cameras or long lenses. All of them featured Elena, Roman, or both.
"Start with this one," Marcus
said, clicking on a thumbnail dated three months ago. "Roman's office, the
day after you left for the preliminary negotiations in Tokyo."
The video opened in a window that took up
half his computer screen. Roman's office at Kane Industries, the one with the
view of Central Park that he'd always joked made him feel like a real CEO.
Roman was behind his desk, but he wasn't alone.
Elena was there, sitting in the chair that
visiting clients usually occupied, except she wasn't dressed like someone
conducting business. She was wearing the blue dress I'd bought her for our
anniversary, the one she'd claimed was too expensive to wear anywhere except
special occasions.
Apparently, planning my destruction
qualified as a special occasion.
I watched my brother and my wife lean
across his desk toward each other, their voices too low for the camera to pick
up but their body language unmistakably intimate. Roman reached across the desk
to touch Elena's hand, and she smiled at him the way she used to smile at me
when we were first married.
"This is from the day they started
the major fund transfers," Marcus said quietly. "Keep watching."
Roman pulled out a laptop and turned it
toward Elena, showing her something on the screen. Even through the grainy
security footage, I could see it was a banking interface, my banking interface.
Elena nodded and pointed at something, and Roman began typing.
They were stealing my money while sitting
in my company's office, using my brother's computer and my wife's
authorization, and they looked like they were planning a vacation.
"There's more," Marcus said, his
hand hovering over the mouse. "Hours of footage, from multiple locations.
But Alex, once you see all of this, you can't unsee it. Are you sure you're
ready?"
I thought about the man I'd been that
morning, stepping off a plane from Tokyo with merger documents in my briefcase
and love in my heart. That man was dead now, killed by bank statements and
legal documents and the growing realization that nothing in his life had been
real.
The man sitting in Marcus's office now
needed to know the truth, no matter how much it destroyed what was left of
Alexander Kane's faith in the world.
"Show me," I said.
Marcus clicked on another video, this one
timestamped just two weeks ago. The camera angle was different, more intimate,
like it had been taken from inside a hotel room. The image was crystal clear,
and what I saw made my heart stop completely.
Elena and Roman in bed together, not just
having sex but laughing afterward, sharing some private joke while they lay
tangled in sheets that looked expensive and unfamiliar. Roman said something
that made Elena throw her head back in genuine laughter, the kind of unguarded
joy I hadn't seen from her in months.
Maybe years.
"They look happy," I said, the
words coming out strangled and bitter.
"This was taken at the Plaza,"
Marcus said. "The same day Elena told you she was visiting her sister in
Philadelphia. Roman told your assistant he was in meetings with potential
investors."
They'd been lying to me so casually, so
completely, that they'd created an entire alternate reality where their
betrayal was just another part of their daily routine. Business meeting, lunch,
destroy Alex's life, dinner, more sex, plan tomorrow's deception.
"How long?" I asked. "How
long have they been..."
"The earliest footage I have is from
eighteen months ago," Marcus said. "But based on some of the
financial patterns, I think it started even earlier. Maybe two years, maybe
longer."
Two years. Two years of Elena kissing me
goodbye when I left for business trips, then immediately calling Roman to
arrange their next rendezvous. Two years of Roman asking about my travel
schedule, ostensibly to coordinate business operations, but actually to
schedule time with my wife. Two years of me working eighteen-hour days to build
a future for people who were actively plotting to steal it.
"There's one more thing," Marcus
said, and his voice carried a note of warning that made my blood chill.
"This is the one that... Alex, this is the one that will hurt the
most."
He clicked on a video thumbnail dated just
three days ago, while I was in my final meetings with the Takahashi family. The
timestamp showed it was taken around the time I was calling Roman to share the
news of our biggest success.
The footage was from a restaurant I
recognized; El Restaurante de Lujo, Elena's favorite, the place where I'd
proposed to her five years ago. Elena and Roman were at a corner table,
champagne glasses raised in what was clearly a celebration.
Roman was talking animatedly, gesturing
with his hands the way he did when he was excited about something. Elena was
leaning forward, hanging on every word, her face glowing with an expression I
remembered from our early days together.
They were celebrating. While I was half a
world away, closing the deal that would make us billionaires, they were
toasting the success of their plan to destroy me.
Marcus turned up the volume, and I could
hear fragments of their conversation over the restaurant's ambient noise.
"...can't believe how easy it
was..." Elena's voice, slightly slurred from champagne.
"...always said he trusted too
much..." Roman's laugh, the one I'd heard a thousand times when we shared
jokes about other people's misfortunes.
"...actually feel sorry for him
sometimes..." Elena again, though she didn't look sorry. She looked
radiant.
"...he'll land on his feet. He always
does. Besides, we deserve this more than he does..."
That was Roman's voice, speaking about me
like I was a stranger, a business obstacle to be removed rather than the
brother who'd raised him, sacrificed for him, built an empire with him.
The video continued for several more
minutes, showing them laughing, touching, planning their post-Alex future with
the casual indifference of people discussing the weather. At one point, Elena
pulled out her phone and showed Roman something that made him laugh so hard he
nearly knocked over his champagne glass.
"That's when you texted her the photo
from Tokyo," Marcus said quietly. "The sunrise picture with the
message about missing them both."
I remembered sending that text, remembered
the warm feeling in my chest as I thought about sharing this success with the
two people I loved most in the world. While I was composing that message,
filled with love and anticipation, they were literally laughing at my devotion.
The video ended with Roman and Elena
leaving the restaurant together, his hand on the small of her back in a gesture
of casual ownership that I'd seen him use with his previous girlfriends. Except
Elena wasn't his girlfriend.
She was supposed to be my wife.
Marcus minimized the video window and
leaned back in his chair, watching me with the careful attention of someone
expecting a complete psychological break. Maybe that's what this was, maybe I
was having some kind of breakdown and hallucinating this entire nightmare
scenario.
But the bank statements were real. The
legal documents were real. The video footage was real.
The only thing that hadn't been real was
my life.
"There are dozens more," Marcus
said quietly. "Months of footage, recordings, financial documents. Enough
evidence to prove conspiracy, fraud, theft, adultery, everything you'd need for
both criminal charges and civil recovery."
"Criminal charges," I repeated,
the words feeling strange in my mouth.
"Alex, they stole from you.
Systematically, deliberately, with premeditation. Elena's power of attorney
gave her access to your personal accounts, but she used that access to commit
felony theft. Roman's corporate maneuvering crosses into fraud territory. We
could have them both arrested."
I thought about Elena in handcuffs, Roman
in a prison jumpsuit, both of them paying for what they'd done to me. The idea
should have felt satisfying, should have felt like justice.
Instead, it just felt empty.
"But?" I asked, because there
was clearly a but coming.
"But proving it means exposing
everything. The affair, the theft, your complete financial ruin, all of it
becomes public record. Every detail of how thoroughly they fooled you becomes
front-page news. And even if we win, even if they go to prison, the money is
probably gone forever. Hidden in offshore accounts, converted to assets we'll
never be able to trace."
So my choices were to let them get away
with destroying my life, or to destroy what was left of my reputation in a
futile attempt at justice that wouldn't even recover my stolen fortune.
"There's one more video," Marcus
said, his voice so quiet I almost didn't hear him. "From yesterday. Right
after Elena filed the divorce papers."
I looked at him, seeing something in his
expression that was even worse than pity. It was the look of a man who was
about to deliver a death blow.
"You don't have to watch it," he
said. "Maybe you shouldn't watch it."
But I was already reaching for the mouse,
my hand moving without conscious thought toward the final video thumbnail. It
was timestamped from last week.
My hand hovered over the play button,
trembling slightly from exhaustion and emotional shock and the terrible
certainty that whatever I was about to see would finish the job of destroying
Alexander Kane completely.
In the past six hours, I'd lost my
fortune, my company, my home, my wife, and my brother. I'd discovered that my
marriage was a lie, my partnership was a fraud, and my trust was a weapon that
had been used to destroy me.
But something told me I hadn't seen the
worst of it yet.
Something told me that the real
devastation was waiting behind that play button, in whatever Roman and Elena
had said or done after they'd finished stealing my life.
My finger touched the mouse button,
hesitating for just a moment as I realized that there would be no going back
from whatever I was about to learn.
The Alexander Kane who'd stepped off a
plane that morning with love in his heart and success in his briefcase was
already dead.
It was time to find out who would take his
place.