His Trophy Wife, The Apex Predator
My husband of three years, Arthur Vanderbilt, came home smelling of his mistress's perfume and threw divorce papers on our marble kitchen island.
He demanded I sign away all rights to our assets for a five-million-dollar "severance," calling me a leech his family picked up from the suburbs to solve a temporary PR crisis.
When I refused and demanded my four percent equity in the Vanderbilt Group, he and his mistress, Serena, launched a vicious smear campaign. They planted false stories on Wall Street forums, accusing me of laundering money for an Eastern European crime syndicate.
They tried to force my hand with a check for five hundred million, which I tore up and threw in his face. To them, I was just a trophy wife they could easily discard.
They had no idea that the "leech" they so despised was the anonymous investor who had secretly bailed out their entire company three years ago, saving them from bankruptcy.
Their final move was to hire an actress to publicly accuse me of fraud in the lobby of the most powerful law firm in Manhattan. They didn't realize I was there to retain the firm's most ruthless lawyer. After security threw them out, I looked my replacement in the eye and made her a promise.
"Prepare for an FBI probe into perjury and corporate defamation."
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Chapter 3
The next morning, the air in Manhattan was crisp and biting.
Jett stepped out of her car, wearing a perfectly tailored black smoking suit.
She walked up the stone steps of the most exclusive, hidden private cigar club in the city.
There was no sign on the door, only a heavy brass knocker.
Jett pushed the door open and approached the mahogany front desk.
The concierge, an older man with a stiff posture, looked up, ready to ask for a reservation.
Jett did not speak.
She reached into her pocket and placed a solid metal black gold card onto the desk.
The concierge's eyes dropped to the card.
His posture instantly became deferential.
"Right this way, ma'am. He is waiting for you in the VIP lounge."
Jett followed him down a dimly lit hallway.
He pushed open a set of heavy oak doors.
The rich, heavy scent of Cuban cigars and aged leather washed over her.
Sitting in a high-backed leather chair by the fireplace was Lord Harrison.
The Wall Street titan had silver hair and eyes that missed absolutely nothing.
He raised a crystal glass of scotch toward her, a slow smile spreading across his weathered face.
"Jett," he rumbled, his voice like gravel.
Jett sat down on the leather sofa opposite him.
She did not bother with pleasantries.
She reached into her bag, pulled out a thick file containing the Vanderbilt Group's internal financial report, and tossed it onto the low table between them.
Harrison set his drink down.
He picked up the file, flipped it open, and adjusted his reading glasses.
His eyes scanned the highlighted sections-the fatal liquidity flaws Jett had mapped out.
A look of deep appreciation settled on his features.
"I am officially exiting the Vanderbilt Group," Jett stated, her voice calm and absolute.
Harrison closed the file.
The smile faded from his face.
He knew exactly what this meant.
"This is going to trigger a massive earthquake downtown," Harrison said, leaning forward. "Why now?"
"Arthur's infidelity," Jett said simply. "And his profound stupidity."
Harrison's face darkened.
He grabbed his silver-tipped cane and struck the heavy wooden floor with a loud, violent thud.
"The boy is a blind fool," Harrison spat, genuine anger tightening his chest.
"My consortium's doors are wide open for you, Jett. Bring your capital. We will crush them together."
"I appreciate the offer," Jett replied, adjusting the cuffs of her suit jacket.
"But I need to win this billion-dollar divorce suit first. I have to clean the equity."
Harrison nodded slowly, swirling the remaining scotch in his glass.
"I saw the garbage floating around the forums this morning. Money laundering? Eastern Europe?"
"Serena Sinclair's handiwork," Jett said, a cold smirk touching her lips. "I plan to use it to wash the shares."
Harrison picked up his phone.
He dialed a number, his thumb pressing hard on the screen.
"Get me the editors at the Journal and the Times," Harrison barked into the receiver.
"Tell them if they print a single word of that unverified gossip about Jett Whitfield, I will pull every advertising dollar my funds control."
He hung up and tossed the phone onto the sofa.
"Consider the mainstream media suppressed," he said.
"Thank you," Jett said. "You will have priority investment rights on my next venture."
Harrison chuckled, the tension leaving his shoulders.
He leaned back and swirled his drink again.
"After the dust settles on this war, Jett, you will need a fortress, not just a fund," Harrison said, his tone shifting into something deeply solemn. He leaned forward, the ice clinking in his glass. "My grandson is returning from London to take over the European division next month. He understands loyalty in a way the Vanderbilts never could. I want you to consider a strategic partnership with him. Not a marriage of convenience, but an alliance of apex predators."
Jett offered a tired, but genuine smile, appreciating the old man's tactical mind.
"I am currently immune to the concept of partnering my assets with anyone's legacy, Harrison. I fight alone for now."
Harrison did not push it.
Instead, he reached into his inner breast pocket.
He pulled out a sleek, matte-black business card.
There was no name on it. Only a string of encrypted numbers.
He slid it across the table toward her.
"If you are going to war with the Vanderbilts, you need the apex predator of litigation," Harrison warned, his voice dropping an octave.
"This man is extremely dangerous. But he has never lost a case."
Jett picked up the card.
The cardstock was heavy, cold to the touch.
She slipped it into the inner pocket of her jacket.
Jett stood up. She smoothed the front of her jacket, her eyes turning into chips of dark ice.
"I need to go meet this lawyer of yours," Jett said, her voice devoid of any warmth.
Harrison watched her walk out of the room. The moment the heavy oak doors clicked shut, Harrison pressed a button on his desk console.
"Get my private investigator on the line," Harrison ordered his assistant. "I want every piece of dirt on Arthur Vanderbilt dug up by midnight."
Meanwhile, Jett walked down the dimly lit hallway and exited the club. The cold Manhattan wind immediately bit into her cheeks. As she descended the stone steps, a man in a nondescript gray suit stepped out from the shadow of a streetlamp, blocking her path to the waiting Maybach.
"Ms. Whitfield," the man said, his voice flat and rehearsed. He thrust a thick legal envelope toward her chest. "You have been served."
Jett didn't flinch. She slowly reached out and took the envelope, tearing it open under the amber glow of the streetlights. It was a legal subpoena from the Vanderbilt family's legal department, warning of an impending asset freeze. Old Richard was getting desperate. She crumpled the edge of the paper, her eyes narrowing as she stepped into the warmth of her car.
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