Jessica, wearing a silver sequined dress that caught the light aggressively, looked around with a critical eye. “The lighting in here is terrible for selfies,” she complained, immediately pulling out her phone. “And why are there so many old people?”
“Those old people control the global economy, babe. Try to look impressed.” Derek scanned the room. It was a sea of bespoke suits and power players.
He spotted his boss, CEO Marcus Sterling, standing near the bar. Derek grabbed a glass of champagne and steered Jessica toward him.
“Mr. Sterling!” Derek boomed, extending a hand. “Great event, right?”
Sterling looked at Derek with a mix of confusion and mild annoyance. “Bolton? I didn’t know you were on the guest list.”
“You know me, always where the action is,” Derek winked. “Big things coming. Big things.”
Sterling nodded vaguely and turned away to speak to a senator. Derek didn’t care; he counted it as a win. He was rubbing shoulders with the elite. He belonged here.
“My God,” Jessica hissed, digging her nails into Derek’s bicep. “Look. Over there by the ice sculpture. Tell me that isn’t her.”
Derek turned, and his stomach dropped. Standing near a quiet corner of the room was Lydia. She looked different. Gone were the oversized cardigans and the messy hair. She was wearing a midnight blue velvet gown that fit her perfectly—modest yet undeniably expensive.
Her hair was swept back in an elegant chignon, and around her neck hung a simple sapphire pendant that looked suspiciously real. She was talking to an older man with white hair—Tobias, the friend Derek had never bothered to meet properly during their marriage.
“What is she doing here?” Derek whispered, anger bubbling up. “Did she sneak in?”
“She probably seduced some old guy to get a ticket,” Jessica sneered, though her eyes lingered on Lydia’s dress with jealousy. “Look at her, trying to fit in. It’s embarrassing.”
Derek downed his champagne. “I’m going to handle this. I can’t have her ruining my reputation by begging for drinks at my business event.” He marched over, Jessica trailing behind him like a shark sensing blood.
“Lydia!” Derek said loudly.
Lydia stopped talking and turned. Her expression didn’t change. There was no fear, no sadness, just a calm, cool gaze that unsettled him. “Hello, Derek,” she said smoothly. “Jessica. Lovely dress. Very… shiny.”
“Cut the act, Lydia.” Derek stepped closer, lowering his voice. “How did you get in here? Security is tight. Did you cater the event? Or are you just a plus-one for Grandpa here?” He gestured rudely to Tobias.
Tobias chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. “I assure you, Mr. Bolton, Lydia is exactly where she belongs.”
“Right,” Derek laughed, a cruel, sharp sound. “Look, Lydia, I know the divorce was hard on you. I know you’re probably struggling to pay rent in Brooklyn. But crashing a high-end summit to hunt for a rich husband? It’s desperate. Even for you.”
Lydia’s eyes narrowed slightly, the only sign of irritation. “Is that what you think I’m doing, Derek?”
“I think you’re jealous,” Jessica chimed in, clinging to Derek’s arm. “You heard about our wedding and you’re trying to show up to make Derek jealous. But look around, sweetie. You’re out of your league. These people are billionaires. You’re a librarian.”
“I was a librarian,” Lydia corrected softly. “I enjoyed it. It was peaceful. Unlike this conversation.”
“Go home, Lydia,” Derek sneered, “before security throws you out. I’d hate for you to make a scene. I have important people to impress tonight.”
Lydia looked at him for a long moment. A small, unreadable smile touched her lips. “You’re right, Derek. You should focus on impressing people. You’re going to need all the help you can get.” She turned back to Tobias. “Shall we go to the Green Room, Tobias? The board is waiting.”
“The Green Room,” Derek scoffed as they walked away. “Please. She’s probably going to the bathroom to cry.”
“Total loser,” Jessica agreed, checking her reflection in her phone. “Let’s go, Derek. This party is boring, and the open bar only has mid-tier vodka. Let’s go to that club in Meatpacking.”
“Yeah,” Derek said, puffing out his chest. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve made my appearance. No need to stay for the speeches.”
Derek and Jessica left the ballroom at 7:45 p.m. At 8:00 p.m., the lights in the ballroom dimmed. The chatter ceased. A spotlight hit the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice boomed. “Please welcome the new Chairwoman and Majority Shareholder of the Sinclair Media Group, the woman who will be leading our acquisition strategy into the next decade, Ms. Lydia Hart Sinclair!”
The room erupted in applause. Lydia walked onto the stage, commanding the room with a grace Derek had never seen. In the front row, Derek’s boss, Marcus Sterling, was clapping enthusiastically, sweating slightly at the realization that the woman he had ignored earlier now owned the bank that held his mortgage.
But Derek didn’t see it. He was in the back of a taxi, arguing with Jessica about why he couldn’t buy her a Cartier bracelet before the wedding. He was completely unaware that he had just insulted the most powerful woman in the city.
The wedding day arrived with a humidity that made Derek’s three-piece suit feel like a wetsuit. It was Saturday, October 14th. The location: Oheka Castle. It was a sprawling, Gatsby-esque estate on Long Island.
Derek had spent the last of his liquidity on the deposit, banking on the cash gifts from the guests to cover the final catering bill, which was due awkwardly at the end of the night.
“Derek! My mother is crying because the napkins are ecru, not ivory!” Jessica screamed from the bridal suite.
“I’ll fix it!” Derek yelled back, wiping sweat from his forehead. He retreated to the groom’s holding room and checked his banking app. Balance: $412.00. He felt a wave of nausea. He had maxed out everything.
The honeymoon to the Maldives was put on a credit card he had opened two days ago under a slightly misspelled variation of his name. He was walking a tightrope over a pit of financial ruin. But as long as the wedding looked perfect, he told himself he could leverage the connections he made today to get a raise or a better job. He needed this to work.
At 2:00 p.m., the ceremony began in the gardens. It was lavish. Drones buzzed overhead capturing video. Jessica looked stunning, though her vows were mostly about how lucky Derek was to have her. Derek’s vows were about building an empire together.
As they walked back up the aisle as man and wife, Derek scanned the crowd. It was a good turnout. His college buddies looked jealous. His co-workers looked impressed. Even Mr. Sterling was there, though he looked strangely pale and kept checking his phone.
“Did you see Sterling?” Derek whispered to Kyle during the cocktail hour. “He looks like he’s seen a ghost.”
“Maybe he’s checking the stock market,” Kyle laughed. “Or maybe he heard the rumor.”
“What rumor?” Derek asked, picking up a crab cake.
“I don’t know, man. Everyone is whispering about some big merger. Some media company bought out the parent group of Stratton Oakmont this morning. Hostile takeover type stuff.”
Derek shrugged. “Corporate shuffle. Doesn’t affect me. I’m an earner.”
The reception was held in the grand ballroom. The chandeliers sparkled. The champagne flowed—the cheap stuff poured into expensive bottles in the back—and the band played loud Top 40 hits.
Derek was feeling good. The alcohol had numbed his anxiety. He grabbed the microphone for his speech.
“Thank you all for coming!” Derek slurred slightly, holding up his glass. “They say success is the best revenge. Well, look around! I’d say I’m winning. I’ve got the beautiful wife, the career, the view. To ambition!”
“To ambition!” a few people shouted back, mostly his drunk friends.
Just then, the maître d’, a stern man named Henri, approached the head table. He looked uncomfortable. “Mr. Bolton? A moment, please.”
Derek leaned down. “Not now, Henri. I’m in the middle of a toast.”
“It is regarding the final payment, sir. The card on file… it was declined.”
Derek froze. “Try it again. It’s a bank error.”
“We tried it three times, sir. And the backup card. And the third one.” Henri’s voice was a whisper, but it felt like a scream. “Per our contract, if payment isn’t settled by the entrée service, we have to pause the bar.”
“You can’t pause the bar!” Derek hissed. “Do you know who I am?”
“I do, sir, but I also answer to the owners.”
“Fine!” Derek panicked. “I’ll write a check. Just keep the drinks flowing.”
As he argued with the staff, a murmur started rippling through the room. It wasn’t the happy buzz of a wedding. It was the sharp, electric sound of gossip. Derek looked up. People weren’t looking at him. They were looking at the massive projection screens set up on either side of the stage.
They were supposed to be playing a slideshow of Derek and Jessica’s relationship photos. But someone had changed the input.
Instead of photos of Jessica in a bikini, the screens were displaying a live news feed from CNBC. The volume was off, but the chyrons were huge: “BREAKING NEWS: SINCLAIR MEDIA GROUP ACQUIRES STRATTON OAKMONT BANKING DIVISION. NEW CHAIRWOMAN LYDIA HART SINCLAIR PROMISES ‘CLEANING HOUSE’ OF TOXIC LEADERSHIP.”
Derek blinked. He rubbed his eyes. The name on the screen: Lydia Hart Sinclair. And then, the image changed. It was a pre-recorded interview. Lydia was sitting in a power suit, looking directly into the camera. The subtitles ran across the bottom.
Interviewer: What is your first move as the head of this new empire?
Lydia: We need to trim the fat. There is a culture of arrogance in our financial division that I intend to root out immediately. Competence will be rewarded. Ego will be terminated.
The room went dead silent. Every eye in the ballroom turned from the screen to Derek. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Then it buzzed again, and again. It was a continuous vibration.
He pulled it out. A text from Marcus Sterling, who was sitting at Table Three: “Derek. Check your email. HR just sent out the restructuring notices. You’re effective immediately.”
Derek looked over at Table Three. Sterling wasn’t looking at him. He was busy typing on his phone, likely trying to save his own skin.
“Derek?” Jessica pulled on his sleeve. “Why is your ex-wife on the TV? And why does it say she’s a billionaire? You told me she was poor.”
“I…” Derek’s mouth was dry. “I didn’t know.”
“She bought the bank!” Kyle shouted from the groomsmen table, drunk and tactless. “Dude, your ex-wife just bought your job!”
A ripple of laughter went through the room. It wasn’t friendly laughter. It was the sound of three hundred people realizing that the emperor had no clothes.
