Chapter 11 - The Rat Traps
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While Richard Sterling was being rushed to Mount Sinai Hospital under police escort following a minor heart attack, the secondary casualties of the Sterling collapse were scrambling for lifeboats.
Chief among them was Cleo, the runway model who had so triumphantly walked into the Plaza Hotel on Vance’s arm.
With Sterling Apex stock collapsing to near-zero and federal investigators swarming their offices, Cleo realized her golden ticket had turned into a toxic liability.
Late that afternoon, my assistant informed me that a woman was begging to see me at the Kensington estate gates.
I walked down to the manicured courtyard, flanked by two armed security guards Declan had hired. Standing outside the wrought-iron gate, looking pale and completely stripped of her glamorous facade, was Cleo. She was wearing oversized sunglasses and a nondescript trench coat, glancing nervously over her shoulder.
“Sloane!” she called out, her voice high and desperate as she pressed her hands against the iron bars.
“Please! You have to let me speak to you!”
I stopped ten feet away, crossing my arms, looking at her with cold indifference.
“You have thirty seconds, Cleo. Make it count.”
“I didn’t know!” Cleo cried, taking off her sunglasses to reveal bloodshot, terrified eyes.
“I swear to God, Sloane, I had no idea who you really were! Vance told me you were just a distant cousin who lived in his guest house! He told me you were financially dependent on his family!”
A bitter laugh escaped my lips.
“Vance is a pathological liar, Cleo. But that doesn’t excuse your arrogance at the Plaza. You enjoyed mocking me.”
“I was stupid! I was greedy!” she admitted hysterically, tears streaming down her face.
“Please, Vance is completely insane! When his father collapsed today, he screamed at me and blamed me for everything! He threatened to ruin my modeling agency! But I have things that can help you!”
I raised an eyebrow.
“What kind of things?”
Cleo reached into her designer bag and pulled out a small, metallic flash drive.
“Vance kept backup recordings of his phone calls,” she whispered, leaning closer to the gate.
“He was terrified his father would cut him out of the family trust, so he recorded Richard talking about illegal offshore transfers and payments made to a man named Silas. Vance gave this drive to me for safekeeping last month!”
She thrust the drive through the iron bars toward me.
“Take it!” Cleo begged.
“Just promise me your mother won’t blackball me from the fashion industry! Promise me you’ll keep my name out of the press!”
I stepped forward and slowly took the flash drive from her trembling fingers.
“I make no promises about the press, Cleo,” I said smoothly.
“But if this data is genuine, I’ll tell my mother’s legal team that you cooperated.”
May you like
Cleo let out a ragged sob of relief, nodding furiously before turning and sprinting toward a waiting rideshare car.
I looked down at the tiny piece of metal in my hand. The rats were officially devouring each other to stay afloat.
