Chapter 4 - On Borrowed Time
Three days later.
The fall of Cross Enterprises was the scandal of the century. The press dubbed it the "The Glass Empire Collapse." Every news outlet was broadcasting the downfall of Damian Cross, analyzing how a man who thought he was a financial genius was actually entirely dependent on the wife he had abused and discarded.
Damian and Evelyn were forced to vacate the mansion. The bank seized their luxury vehicles. Their credit cards were destroyed. Evelyn’s high-society "friends"—the very women who had laughed and applauded at the birthday dinner—refused to take her calls. When she tried to enter her private country club, her membership was publicly revoked at the gate.
They were now living in a tiny, cramped two-bedroom rental apartment on the outskirts of the city—a neighborhood Damian used to mock when driving by in his Bentley.
Evelyn sat on a worn vinyl sofa, staring blankly at the peeling wallpaper, her high-society pride completely obliterated. Her hair was messy, her designer clothes crumpled and unwashed. "Damian... I'm hungry," she whimpered like a child. "The grocery card was declined again. We have no food."
Damian sat at a small wooden table, staring at a stack of legal summonses. The Department of Justice was investigating him for corporate negligence. His board members were suing him personally for breach of fiduciary duty. He owed $50 million in personal guarantees.
He looked at his mother. The sight of her filled him with a bitter, toxic resentment.
"You brought us here, Mother," Damian said, his voice hollow and dead. "You couldn't stand that she was better than you. You had to look down on her because your own life was empty."
"I did it for you!" Evelyn cried, tears streaming down her wrinkled face. "I wanted you to have a woman of status! Not some quiet nobody!"
"She wasn't a nobody!" Damian roared, slamming his fist onto the rickety table, splitting the cheap wood. "She was the queen of the financial world! And she knelt down to clean your mess for four years!"
His phone—a cheap, prepaid burn-phone he was forced to buy—vibrated on the table.
Damian snatched it up, hoping against hope that it was a lawyer offering a settlement.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Damian Cross?" a stern female voice spoke over the line.
"Yes! Speaking!" Damian said desperately.
"This is the secretary for Arthur Montrose, Chairman of Montrose Global. You are requested to attend a private meeting at Montrose Manor today at 4:00 PM. A driver has been dispatched to your current location."
Damian’s heart leaped into his throat. Montrose Manor. The legendary, private estate of the Montrose family—a place reserved only for foreign heads of state and global titans.
"Is... is Isabella going to be there?" Damian asked, his voice trembling with desperation.
"Ms. Montrose will be present," the secretary said coldly. "Do not be late."
The line went dead.
Damian stood up so fast his chair flipped backward. "She wants to see me, Mother! She called me to the estate! She must be ready to talk! Maybe... maybe she just wanted to teach me a lesson! Maybe she still loves me!"
Evelyn looked up, a desperate glint of hope in her eyes. "Yes! Yes, Damian! Go to her! Fall on your knees! Beg her! Tell her I'm sorry! Tell her I will be her servant if she just gives us back our life!"
Damian didn't waste a second. He ran to the bathroom, washed his face, tried to iron his last clean suit with a cheap travel iron, and ran outside.
A sleek black sedan was waiting for him at the curb of the rundown apartment complex. The driver opened the door without a word. Damian practically threw himself into the backseat, his heart pounding against his ribs like a drum.
All during the forty-minute drive, Damian rehearsed his speech.
He would tell her that he was manipulated by Vanessa and his mother. He would tell her that hitting her was the biggest regret of his life. He would promise to spend the rest of his life making it up to her. He would be the devoted, obedient husband she deserved. He would do anything—anything—to get back into her light.
The sedan turned off the main highway, passing through massive iron gates guarded by armed security personnel, and wound up a scenic, tree-lined estate road.
When the trees cleared, Damian’s breath caught in his throat.
Montrose Manor was not just a house; it was a castle. Sprawling marble columns, endless manicured French gardens, fountains casting rainbow mists into the air, and a fleet of hypercars parked along the circular driveway. The mansion Damian had built—the one he had boasted about—was a plastic toy compared to this breathtaking display of generational power.
The driver pulled up to the front steps. "They are waiting for you in the glass pavilion, Mr. Cross."
Damian stepped out, his hands shaking, his knees feeling weak. He walked up the grand steps, guided by a butler in a crisp tuxedo, leading him through high-ceilinged halls lined with original Renaissance paintings and museum-grade sculptures.
Every step Damian took made him realize how utterly pathetic his arrogance had been. Isabella hadn't lived in his world; she had descended into his puddle out of love.
The butler opened two massive glass doors, leading out to a sunlit, marble pavilion overlooking a stunning private lake.
Standing near the edge of the pavilion, looking out over the water, was Isabella.
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She looked ethereal. She wore a tailored ivory silk gown that flowed around her like water, her dark hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders. Beside her stood two men: her father, Arthur Montrose, and a handsome, broad-shouldered man in a sharp navy suit who held a high-level briefing folder.
Damian took a deep breath, stepped into the pavilion, and sank directly onto both knees.
