My Husband Sold Me To The Mafia King Who Turned Out To Be My Daddy Chapter 08
Midtown Manhattan. Sinclair Group headquarters.
Today is the annual board meeting. Every executive in a suit and tie, sitting straight, waiting for the CEO — Damon Sinclair — to walk in.
The heavy oak doors slam open.
Someone just kicked them off their hinges.
Every head in the room jerks up. Faces frozen.
I walk in.
Black tailored suit. Heels. Expression: nothing.
Behind me — my dad. Black coat. Twenty men in black behind him. The kind of presence that shuts a room up in three seconds.
They spread out. Every exit covered.
“Wh — who the hell are you?! Security! Security!”
One of the execs shoots to his feet.
Two of my men walk over. Pick him up like a kid. Drop him back in his chair.
“Who am I?”
I laugh. Cold.
I walk right up to the head of the table. To the CEO’s leather chair. And I sit down. Slow.
“I’m your CEO’s wife.”
“Correction. Soon-to-be ex-wife.”
I snap my fingers.
Two men drag in two burlap sacks. Drop them on the floor.
They cut the ropes.
Out roll two bodies. Beaten. Filthy. Stinking. Damon. Vivian.
“Mr. Sinclair?!”
The whole boardroom sucks in a breath. Faces go green.
That man — the one who used to stride in here in tailored suits, running his mouth about his empire — is curled on the floor like a stray dog. Shaking.
“Ms. Whitmore. The files.”
My dad’s assistant steps forward. Drops a stack of financial statements and bank records onto the conference table. Slam.
I pick up a folder. Flip it open. Sweep my eyes across the room.
“Well. Everyone’s here. Let’s settle up. In front of witnesses.”
I turn to Damon on the floor. My voice drops to zero.
“Damon. Three years ago. Your startup crashed. Loan sharks were about to throw you off a roof.”
“Who wired three million to cover your debt?”
Damon bites down. Won’t answer.
“Me.”
I answer for him.
“When your company had nothing, and couldn’t land the downtown deal — who stood in the rain outside an investor’s mansion all night to bring you the money?”
“Two years ago, when your cash flow died — who liquidated her jewelry? Her real estate? To plug your holes?”
Every sentence, I fling another transaction record in his face.
The execs are glancing at each other. Whispers spreading. Louder. Louder.
“You’ve spent three years telling everyone you built this yourself.”
I stand up. Walk over to him. Look down.
“Damon. Without me — what are you? Nothing.”
Damon’s head snaps up. Bloodshot eyes. Something crazy behind them.
“Cora! Save it! The company’s in my name! I’m the CEO of record! Scream all you want — every cent in here is mine!”
“Yours?”
I scoff. Look at him like he’s slow.
I take a yellowed document from my assistant. Toss it at his face.
“Open your eyes. Read it.”
Damon picks it up. Hands shaking. His pupils shrink the second he sees what it is.
A prenup.
In black and white:
If the husband engages in infidelity, domestic violence, or willful harm against the wife during the marriage, he agrees to walk away with nothing. All company shares, real estate, vehicles, and cash under his name transfer in full to the wife.
“No — no, no, no! You said you tore this up! You said you tore it up!”
Damon rips at the paper like an animal. Screaming.
“Tore it up? I lied.”
I smile. Cold.
“A girl’s gotta protect herself. Turns out — domestic violence, cheating, attempted murder? You hit the trifecta.”
I turn to my dad’s assistant.
“What’s the lawyer say?”
The assistant pushes up his glasses. All business.
“Ms. Whitmore. Per the prenup and the evidence we’ve gathered, Mr. Sinclair has been legally stripped of all assets. As of this moment, one hundred percent of Sinclair Group’s shares have been transferred to Whitmore Holdings.”
“He’s broke. Not a dollar to his name.”
“AAAAHHH! CORA, YOU BITCH! DIE! DIE!”
The terror of losing everything at once snaps something in Damon. He lunges up from the floor. Comes at me. Claws out. Rabid.
He doesn’t even get near me.
My dad’s eyes go dead. He lifts his leg —
And drives his foot straight into Damon’s chest.
BOOM.
Damon flies backwards. Coughs up a mouthful of blood. Hits the floor. Doesn’t get up.
I turn to Vivian. Still huddled in the corner. Playing dead.
“Your turn, Ms. Lockwood.”
“The last two years — Damon used company funds to buy you three penthouse condos. Two Ferraris. And a whole lot of designer jewelry and bags.”
“Total: eighty-four million dollars.”
“The company’s mine now. That money? Embezzlement. Illegal transfer of assets.”
“Pay it back.”
Vivian scrambles backwards. Shaking her head. Manic.
“I don’t have any money! I already used all of it! How am I supposed to give it back?!”
“Used it? That’s fine.”
I smile. Ice.
“Liquidate. Every dollar in your accounts. Your parents’ properties. Whatever’s left over…”
I look down at her.
“Whitmore Holdings has the best legal team in the city. Twenty years in a federal prison? Won’t be a problem.”
Vivian breaks. Screams. Drags herself across the floor to Damon. Starts beating on him. Wild.
“Damon, you killed me! Pay her back! Give her the money!”
My men move in. Drag them out like dead dogs.
As they pass me, Damon is still sobbing.
“Cora! Baby, I’m sorry! You can’t do this to me! I’m your husband!”
I straighten my cuffs. Don’t turn around.
My voice is ice.
“Not anymore.”
“You’re just a broke piece of trash now. Not even worth the space you’re taking up.”