Chapter 3 - The Freezing OutBy noon, the facade had completely crumbled.
I sat at my desk, staring at my laptop screen as headlines flashed across financial news networks: BLACKWOOD ENTERPRISES SHARES PLUNGE FOLLOWING EMERGENCY AUDIT ANNOUNCEMENT. FEDERAL INVESTIGATORS EXAMINE OFFSHORE TRANSFERS AT BLACKWOOD HOLDINGS.
My phone didn't stop ringing. It was a relentless cacophony of panicked investors, angry board members, and nervous PR agents demanding explanations for rumors of corporate embezzlement and sudden executive restructuring. When I tried to dial our chief financial officer, his line went straight to voicemail. When I logged into our primary corporate bank portal, my administrative privileges had been revoked.
I was locked out of my own accounts.
Panic turned to a cold, raging fury. I grabbed my coat and stormed out of the building, ignoring the whispers and wide-eyed stares of employees whispering behind glass partitions. I drove straight to our primary residence in Connecticut, hoping against hope that Elena had returned, that this was some horrific, over-the-top ultimatum designed to scare me straight before we hashed things out like adults.
The gates to the estate swung open automatically as my Mercedes approached—the license plate was still recognized by the security system.
I parked in the circular driveway and threw open the front door.
"Elena!" I yelled, my voice echoing through the hollow, cavernous foyer. "Enough is enough! The board is in an uproar, the stock is tanking, and you've made your point! Where are you?"
Silence.
The house was colder than it had been the night before. Walking through the formal dining room, I noticed that every piece of art on the walls had been unhooked, leaving rectangular outlines of dust on the wallpaper. The grand piano was closed, its polished surface reflecting nothing.
I walked into the kitchen. The refrigerator was entirely empty, unplugged and left ajar.
On the center island sat a single cardboard box.
Curious and dreading what I might find, I stepped closer and peered inside. It contained everything I had left behind in my bachelor apartment before we married five years ago: my old college textbooks, a few cheap watches, a photograph of me standing proudly in front of my first rented apartment, and a handwritten note on plain white paper.
I picked up the note. Elena’s sharp, elegant handwriting stared back at me:
Nathan,
You always loved possessions. You believed that if you bought enough things, built enough wealth, and crafted enough lies, you could own everyone around you. But love isn't a merger, and a family isn't a subsidiary.
I have filed for sole custody of Harrison. You will not find him, and you will not find me. Jonathan Sterling will handle all future communications regarding your corporate resignation and asset division.
Do not look for us.
— E.
I crushed the paper in my fist, letting out a roar of frustration that echoed off the bare kitchen walls. I grabbed the cardboard box and hurled it across the room, watching the old photos and books scatter across the hardwood floor.
"Damn it!" I screamed, slamming my fist against the marble countertop until my knuckles throbbed.
For the first time in my thirty-six years of life, money couldn't fix my problem. Power couldn't intimidate my opponent. And my charm was completely useless against a woman who had stopped loving me.
I fell onto a barstool, my head in my hands, staring at the empty floor.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I snatched it out, hoping—praying—it was her.
It wasn't Elena. It was an unknown number with a New York City area code.
I swiped to answer, my voice harsh. "Who is this?"
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"Mr. Blackwood?" a smooth, professional voice asked. "My name is Detective Miller, NYPD Financial Crimes Unit. We have received formal complaints regarding suspicious wire transfers from corporate accounts to personal entities in the Bahamas. We need you to report to our downtown precinct within the hour for questioning."
The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly against the bare floorboards.
