Chapter 2: The True Heir
Chapter 2: The True Heir
High above the bustling streets of Manhattan, the morning light reflected off the gleaming glass of the Escalante Tower. Mariana stepped out of a private elevator, her cheap brown leather handbag gone. In its place was a sleek, black Birkin, resting against a tailored, charcoal Tom Ford power suit. Her hair, usually tied back in a modest bun to appease her mother-in-law, fell in dark, luxurious waves over her shoulders.
"Good morning, Ms. Escalante," a dozen executives echoed respectfully as she walked down the corridor.
She offered a polite, sharp nod. She pushed open the double doors of the corner office, where her father, Alejandro Escalante—a man whose net worth rivaled the GDP of a small country—stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"You took your time coming home, mija," Alejandro said, turning around with a warm but calculating smile.
"I had an illusion to maintain, Father," Mariana replied, taking a seat at the head of the massive obsidian conference table. "And a company to secretly salvage. Though, as of this morning, I am done salvaging."
"The legal team executed your orders at midnight," Alejandro confirmed, sliding a thick leather-bound dossier across the table. "Every thread connecting Whitmore Industries to our capital has been severed. Without our backing, his company is a hollow shell drowning in half a billion dollars of debt. He has 48 hours before the SEC realizes he’s insolvent and launches an investigation into his fraudulent accounting."
Mariana opened the file, her eyes scanning the catastrophic numbers detailing Andrew's ruin. A cold, genuine smile played on her lips. For four years, she had played the meek, grateful wife. She had hidden her identity, wanting to see if Andrew loved her for who she was, not for the empire she stood to inherit. She had saved his failing company quietly, using proxy firms to pump money into his accounts, hoping the stress relief would make him the man she thought she married.
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Instead, power had made him a monster.
"Have the bank initiate the foreclosure on the Whitmore estate," Mariana ordered, closing the folder with a sharp snap. "And schedule an emergency board meeting at Whitmore Industries for noon. I think it’s time I formally introduce myself to my husband’s board of directors."
