Chapter 8 - THE STRAY DOG OF MAYFAIR
-8
The rain had begun to fall again, a cold, miserable drizzle that slicked the asphalt of the industrial district on the outskirts of the city.
Andrew Vance sat on a cracked vinyl chair inside a windowless, neon-lit diner that smelled of stale grease and burnt coffee. He wore the same wrinkled charcoal Brioni suit from the previous day, though the fabric was now stained with mud from the sidewalk and soaked through at the shoulders. His hair was matted against his forehead, and his eyes were hollow, sunken pits of exhaustion and disbelief.
Before him sat a styrofoam cup of lukewarm tap water and a half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs he couldn't bring himself to swallow.
His phone—a custom gold-plated iPhone 15 Pro Max that had once buzzed incessantly with calls from investors, politicians, and socialites—lay dead on the sticky laminate table. No battery. No service. The carrier had automatically suspended the account at 10:00 AM under fraud prevention protocols linked to the asset freeze.
He was entirely invisible.
A shadow fell across the table.
Andrew didn't look up, assuming it was just another homeless drifter or an impatient waiter telling him to vacate his seat.
"You look terrible, Andrew," a smooth, familiar voice remarked with icy disdain.
Andrew slowly raised his head.
Standing beside the table was Brenda. She wore a heavy designer trench coat, her hair impeccably styled, her makeup flawless. But the expression in her eyes wasn't affection or pity; it was pure, unadulterated revulsion.
"Brenda..." Andrew croaked, his voice cracking from hours of silence and crying. "Thank God... listen, it’s all a misunderstanding. The lawyers are sorting it out. Once my accounts are unfrozen—"
"Shut up, Andrew," Brenda interrupted sharply, crossing her arms over her chest. "Save your pathetic lies for someone who actually cares. I came here for one reason."
She pulled a thin legal envelope from her coat pocket and tossed it onto the sticky table, right next to his styrofoam cup.
"What is this?" Andrew whispered, staring at the paper.
"My attorney drafted formal divorce papers this morning," Brenda said coldly. "Not that we were ever legally married in a way that matters, but I want my name completely dissociated from your bankrupt disgrace. Furthermore, my legal team is suing you for fraudulent misrepresentation of wealth, demanding compensation for the gifts and lifestyle you promised under false pretenses."
Andrew stared at her in utter disbelief. "You... you were ready to marry me twenty-four hours ago! You swore you loved me!"
Brenda let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "I loved the CEO of Vance Industries. I loved the mansion, the cars, and the society galas. I didn't love a broke nobody sitting in a rat-infested diner drinking tap water. Enjoy your new life, Andrew. You deserve every second of it."
With that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the diner, her Louboutin heels clicking sharply against the linoleum floor, leaving Andrew alone in the harsh, fluorescent glare.
He didn't scream. He didn't cry.
He simply stared at the divorce papers on the table, feeling the last remaining fragment of his ego completely shatter into dust.
Suddenly, the bell above the diner door chimed.
Two men in sharp, tailored black suits walked into the diner. They didn't look around; they walked with the synchronized, purposeful stride of high-level private security operatives. They scanned the room for a fraction of a second before their eyes locked onto Andrew’s table.
Without a word, they walked straight toward him.
"Andrew Vance?" the taller operative asked, his voice calm, deep, and authoritative.
Andrew looked up, trembling. "Who... who are you?"
"Mrs. Mariana Escalante requests your presence at corporate headquarters," the operative stated, leaving zero room for argument. "Right now."
Andrew’s breath hitched in his throat. The name struck him like a physical blow.
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"Mariana..." he whispered, his voice trembling violently. "She... she wants to see me?"
"Get up, Mr. Vance," the operative commanded, placing a firm, unyielding hand on Andrew’s shoulder. "The car is waiting outside."
