Chapter 1 - WASH YOUR OWN FEET
Jolene Mercer pushed her bare foot toward Sloan’s face as if the humiliation had already been agreed upon.
“Kneel and wash them.”
Sloan was on one knee beside the cream dining chair, her gold evening gown pooling around her on the marble floor.
A wide metal washbasin sat between them, warm soapy water trembling inside it.
Behind Jolene, Vance watched with his arms folded over his deep-purple dinner jacket.
He did not look embarrassed.
He looked relieved.
As though, after three hours of arguing, his wife had finally remembered her place.
Tinsley stood near the bar in an emerald sequin gown, champagne in hand, smiling like a spectator who had already picked the winner.
Sloan looked around her own Tribeca penthouse.
Crystal chandelier.
Cream sofas she had chosen herself.
Eighteen-foot windows overlooking lower Manhattan.
Marble floors she had spent four months sourcing because Vance hated the first samples.
And now his mother was sitting in Sloan’s chair demanding to have her feet washed because Sloan had refused to sign a loan guarantee.
That was how ridiculous things had become.
Jolene flexed her toes.
“I’m waiting.”
Sloan slowly gripped both sides of the basin.
Vance smiled.
“Just show her some respect and we can finish this.”
Sloan looked at him.
Something inside her shut off.
She rose fast.
The entire basin came with her.
She threw the soapy water directly into Jolene’s face and chest.
Water exploded across the magenta sequins, drenched Jolene’s hair, and poured over the arms of the cream chair.
Jolene screamed.
The metal basin crashed against the marble.
Sloan stood over her.
“Wash yourself, parasite.”
Tinsley lunged first.
Her hand came across hard.
Sloan caught her wrist before the slap landed.
Tinsley jerked against her grip.
Sloan released the wrist and struck her once with an open palm.
Tinsley stumbled sideways into the edge of the sofa.
“You’ll pay for that!”
Vance moved.
His fist came up.
Sloan saw it.
More importantly, he saw her see it.
For half a second they stood frozen.
Then Sloan reached behind her, grabbed the navy leather folder from the dining table, and slammed it into his chest.
Papers burst across the wet marble.
“I own this house!” Vance shouted.
Sloan said nothing.
One page had landed against his shoe.
He bent down.
Read the heading.
His raised fist slowly lowered.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF SEPARATE PROPERTY AND ASSIGNMENT OF MEMBERSHIP INTEREST.
His signature appeared on the bottom.
So did the date.
Twenty-two months earlier.
Jolene stopped wiping water from her face.
Tinsley stopped cursing.
Sloan looked directly at Vance.
“Read the next page.”
He did.
His face changed again.
Because the second document had nothing to do with who owned the penthouse.
It was a letter from First Hudson Bank.
Addressed to Vance.
RE: PROPOSED COLLATERAL — 18 HARRISON STREET, PENTHOUSE
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Sloan had never offered the penthouse as collateral for anything.
Yet according to the letter in Vance’s hands, someone in the Mercer family had told a bank she had.
