His Mistress Knocked Out My 5-Year-Old’s Teeth—My Husband Forced Us To Apologize, Until My Billionaire Father Opened The Gala...

By seven o'clock the following morning, the financial world was in a state of complete chaos.

The headline on the front page of the Wall Street Journal read: "THE RETURN OF THE WHITMORE HEIRESS: MERCER CAPITAL FACES IMMEDIATE LIQUIDATION."

A video taken by an anonymous guest at the gala had gone viral on social media overnight. It showed Grant Mercer kneeling on the floor of the Plaza Hotel, weeping and begging his wife, while Savannah Pierce stood beside him covered in red wine. Another leaked clip showed Marjorie Mercer exiting the Greenwich mansion late the previous night with an ice pack held over her swollen face, shouting incoherently at reporters.

In less than twelve hours, Grant Mercer had gone from Wall Street’s rising star to the most disgraced man in the tri-state area.

Inside the executive boardroom on the top floor of the Mercer Capital building in Manhattan, the atmosphere was panicked.

Grant sat at the head of the long glass table, his hair unwashed, his suit wrinkled, dark purple circles hanging under his eyes. He had not slept a single minute. His phone had been ringing nonstop since 5:00 AM—investors, board members, journalists, and creditors all demanding answers.

Sitting across from him were his three senior partners, all of them looking at him with expressions of unbridled rage.

“Are you out of your fucking mind, Grant?!” screamed David Chen, the head of trading, slamming his fist onto the glass table so hard the water bottles rattled. “You had Arthur Whitmore’s daughter living in your house for six years, and you treated her like a maid? You let your mistress beat her child?!”

“David, calm down—” Grant stammered, his hands shaking as he tried to pour a glass of water.

“Calm down?!” another partner, Marcus Vance (no relation to Richard Vance), roared. “Whitmore Commercial Bank just froze all our operating accounts! They called in our twelve-million-dollar short-term debt! We have until 5:00 PM today to pay it, or they file for forced bankruptcy and seize every asset this firm owns!”

“We... we can get a bridge loan from Chase or Citi,” Grant said frantically, clutching his hair. “We have collateral! We have our real estate holdings!”

“No one is touching us, Grant!” David spat, throwing a stack of papers across the table. “I’ve been on the phone with every major lender in North America for the last two hours! The moment they hear the name 'Mercer Capital,' they hang up! Arthur Whitmore put out an informal directive this morning. Anyone who extends a single dollar of credit to you will be blacklisted from every Whitmore-controlled syndicate worldwide!”

Grant felt his throat tighten. It was an economic blockade. Arthur Whitmore wasn't just shutting down his business; he was erasing him from the financial ecosystem.

Before Grant could respond, the boardroom doors flew open.

In walked Marjorie Mercer, dressed in a black trench coat, her face heavily bruised and swollen on one side. Behind her came Savannah Pierce, wearing huge dark sunglasses to hide her bloodshot, swollen eyes.

“Grant!” Marjorie cried out, stumbling into the room. “You have to stop this! The bank just sent process servers to the Greenwich house! They put a notice of foreclosure on the front gate! They’re telling me I have forty-eight hours to pack my things and leave!”

“They can’t do that!” Savannah sobbed, dropping her designer handbag onto the table. “Grant, my lease on the penthouse in Soho was under your corporate account! The building management just changed the digital locks! All my clothes and jewelry are locked inside!”

The three senior partners looked at Marjorie and Savannah with pure, venomous disgust.

“Get these two useless parasites out of our boardroom,” David Chen said coldly, standing up and buttoning his jacket.

“How dare you speak to me like that!” Marjorie shrieked, pointing her finger. “I am the mother of the CEO!”

“Not anymore you’re not,” David replied, pulling a legal document from his briefcase. “Marcus and I just held an emergency board meeting ten minutes ago. Under Section 4 of our corporate charter, a CEO can be forcibly removed in the event of gross moral misconduct that threatens the solvency of the firm.”

He tossed the document in front of Grant.

“You’re fired, Grant. Effective immediately.”

Grant stared at the piece of paper, his eyes wide with shock. “You... you can’t fire me! I founded this company! My name is on the wall!”

“Then take your name off the wall,” Marcus added coldly. “Because by 5:00 PM today, this firm won't exist anyway. We’re turning over all trading ledgers to Whitmore’s legal team in exchange for personal immunity from the debt collection.”

The two partners walked out of the room, slamming the door behind them, leaving Grant, Marjorie, and Savannah in total, deafening silence.

Grant slumped back in his leather chair, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Grant...” Savannah whimpered, reaching out to touch his arm. “What are we going to do? You still have money in your personal accounts, right? You have your offshore funds?”

Grant slowly turned his head to look at her. The woman he had thought was a trophy, the woman he had chosen over the mother of his child, now looked wretched, needy, and utterly repulsive to him.

“My personal accounts were linked as personal guarantees for the corporate debt,” Grant said, his voice completely flat, devoid of life. “Everything I own... the house, the cars, the accounts, the stocks... it was all tied to the Whitmore credit line.”

Savannah froze. “What... what does that mean?”

“It means I’m broke, Savannah,” Grant snapped, his voice suddenly rising into a hysterical shout. “It means I have zero dollars! It means I owe twelve million dollars to my wife’s father!”

Savannah stepped back as if he had struck her. Her eyes narrowed, the last illusion of affection vanishing instantly from her face.

“You useless idiot,” she spat, her voice dripping with malice. “You had everything, and you threw it away for what? You couldn't even tell that your own wife was worth billions? You ruined my life!”

“I ruined your life?!” Grant yelled, standing up so fast his chair flipped over backwards. “You’re the one who hit her daughter! You’re the one who started this whole nightmare because of a fucking twenty-eight thousand dollar dress!”

“She was a brat!” Savannah shrieked. “And you’re a pathetic loser!”

She grabbed her handbag, turned on her heel, and stormed out of the boardroom, her heels clicking angrily down the marble hallway.

“Grant... son...” Marjorie whimpered, coming closer, her voice trembling. “What about me? Where am I going to live? I can’t go to a shelter, Grant! I’m a Mercer!”

Grant looked at his mother—the woman who had spent six years demanding expensive vacations, driving wedge after wedge between him and Clara, constantly reminding him that Clara wasn't "good enough" for their family.

“Go away, Mother,” Grant whispered, dropping his head into his hands.

“Grant!”

“GO AWAY!” he roared, slamming both hands onto the table.

Marjorie flinched, burst into tears, and fled the room.

Grant was left entirely alone in the massive, soundproof boardroom.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the New York skyline stretched out into the distance, bright and indifferent. Just twenty-four hours ago, he had believed he was on the verge of conquering that city. Now, he was standing on the edge of an abyss.

His phone buzzed on the glass table.