Chapter 3 - Stripped of the GoldWhile Lily took command of the corporate skyscraper, Grant Carrington was standing outside the iron gates of his Bel-Air estate in the pouring rain, screaming at his own security staff.
“What do you mean my code doesn't work?!” Grant roared, pounding his fist against the intercom pillar. “I own this house! Open the damn gate, Hector!”
The speaker crackled to life. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carrington. Mr. Theodore Carrington’s legal team issued an injunction at eleven o'clock. This property is owned by the Carrington Family Trust, not you personally. All lock codes have been changed. Your personal items are being packed and will be delivered to a storage unit in Van Nuys tomorrow.”
“Van Nuys?!” Grant shrieked. “Are you out of your mind?!”
Beside him, parked in the driveway in a idling luxury taxi, sat Sloane Monroe. Her silver gown was stained around the hem with muddy water, and her hair was frizzing in the damp air.
She rolled down the window, her voice sharp and dripping with panic. “Grant! What is happening? My manager just called me! The studio canceled my contract for Velvet Shadows! They’re replacing me!”
Grant spun around, his tuxedo jacket soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead. “Just give me a minute, Sloane! My dad is just having a senior moment! He’ll cool off by morning!”
“Cool off?” Sloane hissed, stepping out of the cab, her heels clicking angrily on the wet asphalt. “Grant, your corporate cards were declined at the hotel! I had to pay for this cab with my own card! They took my trailer off the studio lot! They’re stripping me of everything!”
She reached up to her neck, her fingers hovering over the emerald necklace.
“At least we have this,” Sloane said, her voice dropping into a desperate whisper. “This necklace is worth at least three million dollars at auction. We can sell it, go to Europe, wait for the storm to pass—”
“Hand it over.”
A deep, gravelly voice cut through the rain.
A black town car slid silently to the curb behind the cab. Out stepped two men in dark suits, accompanied by an elderly woman wearing a modest wool coat.
Grant recognized her instantly. It was Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper of the Bel-Air estate—the woman Grant had accused of stealing the necklace three days ago to cover his own crime.
Behind Mrs. Gable stood a uniformed LAPD detective.
“Grant Carrington,” Detective Miller said, pulling a laminated warrant from his jacket. “We have a warrant for the recovery of stolen property belonging to the Estate of Margaret Carrington, as well as a corporate fraud complaint filed by Arthur Vance on behalf of Carrington Global.”
Sloane backed away, her face turning ghastly pale. “Stolen? No! Grant gave this to me! He said it was his mother’s gift to me!”
“Grant didn't own it,” Detective Miller said coldly. “The emerald necklace is an asset of the Margaret Carrington Charitable Foundation. Grant removed it from the vault without authorization and logged a false police report accusing Mrs. Gable of theft.”
Mrs. Gable looked at Grant, her eyes filled with quiet, dignified disgust. “You watched me cry, Mr. Grant. You let your security guards turn my apartment upside down while my grandchildren watched.”
“Mrs. Gable, wait—” Grant stuttered, stepping forward, his hands raised in panic. “It was a misunderstanding! I was going to replace it!”
“Miss Monroe,” Detective Miller turned to Sloane. “Remove the necklace immediately and hand it to the officer. If you resist, you will be arrested as an accessory to grand larceny.”
Sloane’s hands trembled so violently she couldn't unfasten the clasp. The female officer stepped forward, unhooked the priceless emeralds, and placed them carefully inside a velvet-lined evidence box.
“This is a nightmare,” Sloane sobbed, stepping away from Grant as if he were radioactive. “You lied to me! You told me you controlled the studio! You told me you were the heir!”
“Sloane, baby, please—” Grant pleaded, reaching for her arm.
“Don't touch me!” she screamed, slapping his hand away. She jumped back into the taxi and slammed the door. “Take me to the Beverly Hills Hotel! Now!”
The taxi sped away into the darkness, splashing muddy water across Grant’s trousers.
Grant stood alone in the rain, stripped of his wealth, his reputation, his mistress, and his home. The detective stepped forward, holding a pair of steel handcuffs.
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“Grant Carrington, you’re under arrest for filing a false police report and corporate embezzlement. You have the right to remain silent...”
As the steel cuffs clicked around his wrists, Grant looked up at the towering hills of Bel-Air, where his father’s estate sat dark and unreachable behind heavy iron gates.
