Chapter 13: The Plastic Ghost

The automatic doors of the St. Regis hissed open, welcoming Julian into the familiar scent of expensive lilies and floor wax. He didn't look like a man who belonged there anymore. His tie was gone, his shirt was damp with sweat, and he was carrying a single leather duffel bag he had managed to throw together at the last minute before the movers changed the locks on the penthouse.

He approached the reception desk, trying to summon the phantom of his former authority. "My name is Julian Thorne. I have a standing suite."

The receptionist, a young woman who had checked him in dozens of times for lunch meetings, didn't smile. She looked at his disheveled state, then at her screen. "Of course, Mr. Thorne. All I need is a card for the incidental hold."

Julian pulled out his black metal card, the one that had never once met a limit. He slid it across the marble counter with a flick of his wrist.

The machine chimed, letting out a short, harsh beep.

His card had declined.

"I am sorry sir, but your care declined." The receptionist said, smiling nervously.

Julian frowned, a cold prickle of heat crawling up his neck. "Run it again. Your system must be lagging or something."

She ran it again. The same beep echoed in the quiet lobby. "I’m sorry, sir. It is still not going through. Do you have another form of payment?"

He pulled out his corporate Gold card. And it also ended up being declined.

His personal travel card. Declined.

With each beep, Julian felt the eyes of the other guests on his back. He could feel the weight of the cameras outside, the paparazzi waiting for him to stumble. He reached into his wallet and pulled out his last card, a private line of credit he kept for emergencies.

He was dying to save himself of the humiliation that was looming over his head.

"You know what? Just try this one," he rasped, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears.

The receptionist swiped it. This time, a message appeared on her screen in bold red letters. She looked up, her expression shifting from professional pity to something sharper.

"Mr. Thorne, this card has been flagged as 'Closed by Issuer.' The notes indicate a total freeze on all accounts associated with your social security number."

"That is total nonsense! It is impossible," Julian whispered, grabbing the edge of the desk. "I have millions of dollars in that account."

"Not according to the Blackwood Trust," she said, sliding the useless plastic back to him. "Sir, at this juncture, I am going to have to ask you to step aside. There are other guests waiting in line."

Julian stared at the row of cards on the marble. They were just pieces of plastic now meaningless, dead weight. He looked at his phone. He had thirty-two missed calls from his lawyers and a single text from Arthur Vance that simply read: 

"No matter how miserable you are out there, don't come back to Greenwich and don't you dare to call my daughter." 

He gathered the cards with trembling fingers and turned toward the door. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, the flashes of the cameras hit him like physical blows. He didn't have a car, he didn't have a room and neither did he even have enough cash in his pocket for a taxi.

Across the street, a black sedan sat idling. The window rolled down just an inch, enough for him to see the silhouette of a woman in a white suit. It was Elena.

Elena wasn't laughing,she wasn't gloating and neither did she have a pity look on her gorgeous and flawless dace. She was just watching him realize that in a city built on credit, he had officially become a ghost.

Julian began to walk, his leather shoes clicking hollowly on the pavement, heading towards the only place left he could think of at the moment: his last resort and solace. The small, dingy apartment Sarah had kept before she moved in with him. He just needed to find her. He needed to believe the baby was still his leverage. As long as he had Sarah, he could rise up to fame again or so he thought.

But as he turned the corner, he saw the headline on a newsstand: VANCE HEIRESS DENOUNCES THORNE; CLAIMS FRAUD AND COERCION.

The sidewalk felt like it was tilting. He wasn't just broke. He was now officially alone and miserable.