Chapter 4 - The Honeymoon That Never Was
At 2:30 AM, the bridal suite at the St. Regis was not filled with rose petals and romance. It sounded like an abattoir.
Jackson stood in the center of the suite, his tuxedo jacket discarded on the floor, his bow tie dangling untied around his neck. On the coffee table lay four separate credit card decline slips from the hotel front desk.
The presidential suite cost eighteen thousand dollars a night. Jackson’s card—linked to the Vance Corporate treasury—had been rejected with an error code: *ACCOUNT CLOSED BY ISSUER.*
Across the room, Natalie was pacing like a caged panther. She had torn off her veil, tossing it onto the television stand. Her white silk robe billowed around her as she threw open the closet doors, frantically stuffing designer clothes into two Louis Vuitton duffel bags.
“Call her again!” Natalie shrieked, spinning around to face him. Her makeup was smeared, black mascara streaking her cheeks like venomous tears. “Call that bald bitch right now and tell her you’re sorry! Tell her you’ll force me to apologize! Grovel, Jackson! Fall on your knees!”
Jackson flinched, stepping back. He had never seen her like this. During the eighteen months of their courtship, Natalie had been a creature of soft cashmere, breathless giggles, and endless adoration. She had told him he was brilliant, that his mother was suffocating his natural genius, that together they would conquer Manhattan society.
Now, looking at her contorted face, he saw something feral.
“She won't answer, Natalie,” Jackson stammered, his hands shaking as he clutched his phone. “Judith blocked my number. Marcus Ward sent an email saying any contact from me will be treated as harassment. She… she canceled the cards. She took away the penthouse. We have nothing.”
“*You* have nothing!” Natalie screamed, storming toward him until she was inches from his face, her index finger stabbing into his chest. “You pathetic, spineless little boy! You told me she was weak! You told me she was an old woman who would roll over the second you threatened to cut her out of your life! You swore to me the trust transfer was irrevocable!”
“I didn't know she would play that audio!” Jackson yelled back, his voice rising in desperate defense. “How did she even get that? Who recorded you?”
“Who cares who recorded it?!” she shrieked, kicking a champagne cooler. The silver bucket clattered across the marble floor, spilling ice and melted water over the Persian rug. “You were supposed to control her! You were supposed to have the paperwork signed three days ago! Now the police might be looking into the housekeeper, and you’re standing here crying like a slapped toddler!”
Jackson froze. The rage drained from his face, replaced by a sudden, sickening chill.
“What do you mean… looking into the housekeeper?”
Natalie looked away, her jaw clenching. “Nothing.”
“Natalie.” Jackson stepped closer, his voice dropping an octave, tinged with a horrifying realization. “You told me Maria found my mother’s jewelry box missing after a break-in. You told me Mom shaved her own head in a fit of hysteria this morning.”
Natalie let out a cold, humorless bark of laughter. “Oh, please. Don't play the saint now, Jackie. You signed the conservatorship petition. You were ready to ship her off to a lockdown facility in Westchester so we could buy the yacht in Monaco. Did you really think she was just going to hand over a hundred and twenty million without a little push?”
“You drugged her?” Jackson whispered, the color completely leaving his lips. “You shaved my mother’s head?”
“I did what had to be done to secure our future!” Natalie hissed, grabbing his lapels, her eyes burning with madness. “And you’re going to fix this. You’re going to walk into that penthouse tomorrow morning, tell her that I manipulated you, tell her that you’re divorcing me, and get that money back into your name! Do you hear me? You get the money, or so help me God, Jackson, I will take the jewelry I have hidden in my storage unit, fly to Zurich, and leave you with every penny of the wedding debt!”
Before Jackson could answer, a heavy, rhythmic knock echoed through the suite’s mahogany door.
Natalie froze. Jackson swallowed hard.
“Room service?” Jackson murmured hopefully.
“At three in the morning?” Natalie whispered, her eyes darting to her packed bags.
The knock came again, louder this time, accompanied by a firm, authoritative voice that brooked no debate.
“New York City Police Department. Open the door. We have a warrant for Natalie King.”
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Natalie’s breath caught in her throat. She looked at the door, then at Jackson. Without a second’s hesitation, she turned and bolted toward the master bedroom balcony, looking for an escape that didn't exist fourteen floors above Manhattan.
***
