Bragging About His New Marriage — He Missed the News That His Ex Was Becoming a Billionaire Heiress…
He posted the photo at 8ish a.m. a diamond ring worth more than his ex-wife’s car, captioned, “Finally, a woman who matches my ambition.” Derek thought he had played the game of life perfectly. He had dumped his boring starter wife, Lydia, for the flashy young Jessica, convinced he was trading up.
He was busy planning the wedding of the century, bragging to every c-orker and friend who would listen. But while Derek was busy checking his engagement likes, he missed the breaking news notification that would shatter his entire reality. The woman he just discarded wasn’t struggling. She was stepping into an inheritance that makes billionaires look like porpers, and she was about to become his boss.
The ink on the divorce papers wasn’t just dry. It was practically fossilized in Derek Bolton’s mind. He sat in the highbacked leather chair of his corner office at Stratton Oakmont Financial, swirling a glass of sparkling water that cost $12 a bottle. He looked out over the Manhattan skyline, a view he felt he finally deserved.
“You should have seen her face, man.” Derek laughed into his AirPods, talking to his best friend, Kyle. Lydia didn’t even fight for the alimony. She just looked at me with those big, sad, dough eyes and signed. It was pathetic. Honestly, zero fight, zero ambition. That’s why I had to get out. She didn’t ask for the house, Kyle asked, his voice crackling with static. Nope.
She packed her bags and moved into some studio apartment in Brooklyn. Can you imagine going from our place in the Upper East Side to Brooklyn? It’s embarrassing. I almost feel bad for her. Almost. Derek ended the call and swiveled his chair around. He checked his reflection in the darkened monitor of his computer. At 34, Derek was handsome in a generic corporate way.
sharp jawline, expensive haircut, and a suit that cost three grand. He was a senior vice president. And in his mind, he was a god. He unlocked his phone and opened Instagram. There it was, his latest post. A picture of Jessica’s hand resting on his arm, a massive fourc carat emerald cut diamond glittering on her finger.
The caption read, “Upgrade complete. New chapter with a woman who understands the hustle. Power couple, new beginnings. It already had 400 likes. Jessica was everything Lydia wasn’t. She was 24, an influencer with a vague job description that involved attending events and looking expensive.
She was loud, demanding, and obsessed with status. Traits Derek mistook for ambition. Lydia, on the other hand, had been quiet. She was a librarian who wore oversized cardigans and spent her weekends volunteering at animal shelters. She was sweet, reliable, and to Derek, utterly suffocating in her mediocrity. He had married Lydia 6 years ago when he was just a junior analyst.
Back then, her stability was comforting. She paid the bills when he was broke. She cooked dinner when he worked late. But now, now he was a shark, and sharks don’t swim with guppies. Derek. He looked up. Jessica breezed into his office, smelling of Chanel number five and entitlement. She was wearing a white dress that was a little too short for a corporate office.
But Derek loved the envious looks he got from the junior associates. “Babe,” he grinned, standing up. “What are you doing here? We need to talk about the venue, Jessica said, pouting as she dropped her Hermes Birkin bag onto his desk. The plaza is saying they’re booked for our date. Can you believe the audacity? I told them who you were.
Derek puffed out his chest. Don’t worry, I’ll make a call. Who’s the event manager? Some guy named Richard. She sighed, checking her nails. Also, I saw your ex today. Derek froze. Lydia? where I was grabbing coffee in Soho. She was coming out of that old dusty antique bookstore. She looked rough, Derek.
No makeup, hair in a messy bun, wearing a trench coat that looked like it was from a thrift store. Jessica giggled cruy. She was carrying a box of books. I almost offered her a dollar. Derek let out a barking laugh. God, that’s tragic. I told you she has no drive. She’s probably selling her old books to make rent.
I made sure she saw the ring, Jessica added, her eyes gleaming with malice. I waved. She just stared at me and got into a cab. Not even an Uber, Derek. A yellow cab. “Well, let that be a reminder of why I chose you,” Derek said, pulling her close. “You’re the future. She’s ancient history. But Derek was wrong about one thing.
Lydia hadn’t been staring at the ring with jealousy. She had been staring with pity. And she wasn’t getting into a cab because she couldn’t afford an Uber black. She was getting into a cab because her usual driver, a massive exsas bodyguard named Arthur, was currently circling the block in the armored Maybach, waiting for the paparazzi to clear out.
Derek had spent six years with Lydia, and in all that time, he had never once asked her about her mother’s maiden name. He knew her father was a school teacher from Ohio. He knew she liked Earl Gay Te, but hedidn’t know that Lydia Hart was a shortened alias. He didn’t know that her full name was Lydia Hart Sinclair, and he certainly didn’t know that the dusty antique bookstore she walked out of, was actually the private archives of the Sinclair Foundation, which she had just finished inspecting before the board meeting that would announce her as
the sole heirs to the Sinclair Media Group, a conglomerate that owned half the news stations in the country, including the financial network Derek watched every morning. 2 weeks later, the Save the Date cards for Derek and Jessica’s wedding went out. They were heavy cream colored card stock with gold leaf lettering costing $15 a pop.
Derek wanted to make a statement. He invited everyone, his boss, the CEO of Stratton Oakmont, his clients, and even his old college rivals. He also, in a stroke of drunken arrogance, sent one to Lydia. Why would you invite her? Kyle asked over drinks at a rooftop bar in Chelsea. Derek swirled his whiskey.
Closure, Kyle. Plus, I want her to see what she missed out on. I want her to see Jessica in that Vera Wang dress. I want her to see the ice sculpture. I want her to realize that leaving me was the biggest mistake of her life. Didn’t you leave her? semantics. Derek waved a hand. The point is I want her to suffer a little.
Is that bad? It’s petty. Kyle laughed. But I like it. Meanwhile, across the city in a penthouse overlooking Central Park, a property that wasn’t listed on Zillow and had been in the Sinclair family since 1920. Lydia held the invitation between two fingers. She was sitting in a velvet armchair, wearing a silk robe that cost more than Derek’s entire wedding budget.
Her hair was down, cascading over her shoulders in glossy waves. There were no messy buns here. He invited you. A voice came from the balcony. Lydia turned. Standing there was Tobias Thorne, the family’s chief legal counsel and her childhood best friend. Tobias was sharp, dangerously intelligent, and the only person who knew the full extent of the transition Lydia was undergoing.
“He did,” Lydia said, her voice cool and amused. “Derek has always been a fan of the theatrical.” Tobias walked in, pouring himself a glass of vintage scotch. “The man is a He’s celebrating a promotion to SVP while you’re about to be named chairwoman of the board that owns his bank’s parent company.
Does he have any idea? None. Lydia smiled. I played the part of the beautiful, simple wife. Very well, Tobias. I wanted to see if he loved me or if he just wanted a prop. When he started complaining that I wasn’t ambitious enough because I didn’t want to go to Gala dinners every night, I knew it was over. “So, are you going?” Tobias asked, gesturing to the invitation.
“To the wedding?” Lydia tapped the card against her chin. “The wedding is on the 14th of next month, the same day as the Global Media Summit,” Tobias noted. where you’re making your first public appearance as the Sinclair head. Exactly, Lydia said. I can’t go, but I can send a gift. A toaster? No. Lydia’s eyes glittered.
Something more appropriate. Derek loves status, right? He loves feeling important. I think I’ll buy the venue. Tobias choked on his drink. You’re going to buy the Oh Castle. Not the whole castle, Tobias. Don’t be dramatic. Just the hospitality group that manages their events.
I was looking at their portfolio anyway. They’re undervalued. If I acquire them, I technically become his host. You are terrifying. Tobias grinned. He wanted a power couple. Lydia stood up, walking to the window to look out at the city lights. He wanted drama. He wanted a story to tell his friends. I’m just going to give him a better ending than he planned.
Back in his office, Derek was stressing over the seating chart. Jessica was screaming at a florist on the phone. “No, I said white peies, not cream. Are you colorblind? My fiance will sue you.” Jessica slammed the phone down. “Derek, you need to fix this. Everything is going wrong. The florist is an idiot, and now the band is saying they double booked.
” “I’ll handle it, babe,” Derek said, massaging his temples. He checked his email. A notification popped up from Business Insider. Subject: The Sleeping Giant Wakes Sinclair estate. Finally, names successor. Derek deleted it without reading. He didn’t care about old money families. He cared about his wedding. He cared about showing the world he had arrived.
He picked up his phone and texted Lydia. “Hey, sent you an invite. No hard feelings. Hope you can make it. It’s going to be huge.” He watched the three dots appear, then disappear. No reply. “She’s probably crying into a pint of ice cream,” Derek muttered to himself, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction.
He had no idea that at that exact moment Lydia was sitting in a boardroom surrounded by 12 men in gray suits signing a document that authorized the acquisition of the Prestige Hospitality Group, the very company Derek had just paid a $50,000 depositto. Mr. Bolton, his assistant knocked on the door. There’s a call for you. It’s the bank.
Something about your credit limit. What? Derek snapped. I’m a VP. put them through. He picked up the phone. This is Derek. Mr. Bolton, this is fraud prevention. We noticed a massive charge for a wedding venue, but we also see you’ve maxed out three cards on jewelry and a lease for a Porsche. It’s an investment, Derek shouted, sweating slightly. I’m good for it.
My bonus is coming next month. Right. Well, we need to freeze the accounts until you can verify some income streams. It looks like your debt to income ratio is getting risky. Do not freeze my cards, Derek roared. I have vendors to pay. He slammed the phone down. Jessica looked at him, eyes wide.
Is everything okay? Fine, Derek lied, loosening his tie. Just banking errors. Competence is hard to find these days. He walked to the window looking down at the street. He needed this wedding to be perfect. He needed everyone to see he was a winner. If he had to max out every card and leverage his 401k, he would do it. Because the only thing worse than being broke was looking broke.
And somewhere out there, Lydia was probably knitting a scarf, completely unaware of how high Derek was flying, or so he thought. 3 days before the wedding, Derek felt like the king of New York. He had managed to secure two invitations to the opening cocktail hour of the Global Media and Finance Summit. It was the most exclusive networking event of the year held in the Diamond Ballroom of the Pierre Hotel.
Tickets were $5,000 ahead, but Derek had bullied a vendor into giving him their corporate passes. “This is it, Jess,” Derek said as they stepped out of the Uber black. He adjusted his cufflinks. “Everyone who is anyone is here. If I play my cards right, I’ll secure the financing for my own firm within a year.
Then I can tell Stratton Oakmont to shove it.” Jessica, wearing a silver sequined dress that caught the light aggressively, looked around with a critical eye. “The lighting in here is terrible for selfies,” she complained immediately, pulling out her phone. “And why are there so many old people? Those old people control the global economy, babe.” Tried to look impressed.
Derek scanned the room. It was a sea of bespoke suits and power players. He spotted his boss, CEO Marcus Sterling, standing near the bar. Derek grabbed a glass of champagne and steered Jessica toward him. “Mr. Sterling,” Derek boomed, extending a hand. “Great event, right?” Sterling looked at Derek with a mix of confusion and mild annoyance.
“Bolton, I didn’t know you were on the guest list.” Oh, you know me always where the action is. Derek winked. Big things coming. Big things. Sterling nodded vaguely and turned away to speak to a senator. Derek didn’t care. He counted it as a win. He was rubbing shoulders with the elite. He belonged here.
“Oh my god,” Jessica hissed, digging her nails into Derek’s bicep. “Look over there by the ice sculpture. Tell me that isn’t her.” Derek turned, his stomach dropped. Standing near a quiet corner of the room was Lydia. She looked different. Gone were the oversized cardigans and the messy hair. She was wearing a midnight blue velvet gown that fit her perfectly, modest yet undeniably expensive.
Her hair was swept back in an elegant shinor, and around her neck hung a simple sapphire pendant that looked suspiciously real. She was talking to an older man with white hair. Tobias, the friend, Derek had never bothered to meet properly during their marriage. “What is she doing here?” Derek whispered, anger bubbling up.
“Did she sneak in?” She probably seduced some old guy to get a ticket. Jessica sneered, though her eyes lingered on Lydia’s dress with jealousy. Look at her trying to fit in. It’s embarrassing. Derek downed his champagne. I’m going to handle this. I can’t have her ruining my reputation by begging for drinks at my business event.
He marched over, Jessica trailing behind him like a shark sensing blood. Lydia,” Derek said loudly. Lydia stopped talking and turned. Her expression didn’t change. There was no fear, no sadness, just a calm, cool gaze that unsettled him. “Hello, Derek,” she said smoothly. “Jessica, lovely dress. Very shiny.
” “Cut the act, Lydia,” Derek stepped closer, lowering his voice. “How did you get in here? Security is tight. Did you cater the event or are you just a plus one for grandpa here? He gestured rudely to Tobias. Tobias chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. I assure you, Mr. Bolton, Lydia is exactly where she belongs. Right, Derek laughed.
A cruel, sharp sound. Look, Lydia. I know the divorce was hard on you. I know you’re probably struggling to pay rent in Brooklyn, but crashing a high-end summit to hunt for a rich husband, it’s desperate, even for you.” Lydia’s eyes narrowed slightly, the only sign of irritation. “Is that what you think I’m doing, Derek?” “I think you’re jealous,” Jessica chimed in, clinging to Derek’sarm.
“You heard about our wedding, and you’re trying to show up to make Derek jealous. But look around, sweetie. You’re out of your league. These people are billionaires. You’re a librarian. I was a librarian, Lydia corrected softly. I enjoyed it. It was peaceful, unlike this conversation. Go home, Lydia, Derek sneered. Before security throws you out.
I’d hate for you to make a scene. I have important people to impress tonight. Lydia looked at him for a long moment. A small unreadable smile touched her lips. “You’re right, Derek. You should focus on impressing people. You’re going to need all the help you can get.” She turned back to Tobias. “Shall we go to the green room?” Tobias.
“The board is waiting.” “The green room?” Derek scoffed as they walked away. “Please, she’s probably going to the bathroom to cry.” “Total loser,” Jessica agreed. checking her reflection in her phone. “Let’s go, Derek. This party is boring, and the open bar only has mid-tier vodka. Let’s go to that club in meat packing.
” “Yeah,” Derek said, puffing out his chest. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve made my appearance. No need to stay for the speeches.” Derek and Jessica left the ballroom at 7:45 p.m. At 8:01 p.m., the lights in the ballroom dimmed. The chatter ceased. A spotlight hit the stage. Ladies and gentlemen, the announcer’s voice boomed.
Please welcome the new chairwoman and majority shareholder of the Sinclair Media Group, the woman who will be leading our acquisition strategy into the next decade, Miss Lydia Hart Sinclair. The room erupted in applause. Lydia walked onto the stage, commanding the room with a grace Derek had never seen. In the front row, Derek’s boss, Marcus Sterling, was clapping enthusiastically, sweating slightly at the realization that the woman he had ignored earlier now owned the bank that held his mortgage. But Derek didn’t see it. He
was in the back of a taxi arguing with Jessica about why he couldn’t buy her a Cartier bracelet before the wedding, completely unaware that he had just insulted the most powerful woman in the city. The wedding day arrived with a humidity that made Derek’s three-piece suit feel like a wet suit. It was Saturday, October 14th.
The location Oh Castle. It was a sprawling Gatsby-esque estate on Long Island. Derek had spent the last of his liquidity on the deposit, banking on the cash gifts from the guests to cover the final catering bill which was due awkwardly at the end of the night. “Derek, my mother is crying because the napkins are a crew, not ivory,” Jessica screamed from the bridal suite.
“I’ll fix it,” Derek yelled back, wiping sweat from his forehead. He retreated to the groom’s holding room. He checked his banking app. Balance. 412 settles. He felt a wave of nausea. He had maxed out everything. The honeymoon to the Maldes was put on a credit card he had opened 2 days ago under a slightly misspelled variation of his name.
He was walking a tightroppe over a pit of financial ruin. But as long as the wedding looked perfect, he told himself he could leverage the connections he made today to get a raise or a better job. He needed this to work. At 2 p.m., the ceremony began in the gardens. It was lavish. Drones buzzed overhead, capturing video. Jessica looked stunning, though her vows were mostly about how lucky Derek was to have her.
Derek’s vows were about building an empire together. As they walked back up the aisle as man and wife, Derek scanned the crowd. It was a good turnout. His college buddies looked jealous. His co-workers looked impressed. Even Mr. Sterling was there, though he looked strangely pale and kept checking his phone. “Did you see Sterling?” Derek whispered to Kyle during the cocktail hour. “He looks like he’s seen a ghost.
Maybe he’s checking the stock market, Kyle laughed. Or maybe he heard the rumor. What rumor? Derek asked, picking up a crab cake. I don’t know, man. Everyone is whispering about some big merger. Some media company bought out the parent group of Stratton Oakmont this morning. Hostile takeover type stuff. Derek shrugged.
Corporate shuffle doesn’t affect me. I’m an earner. The reception was held in the grand ballroom. The chandeliers sparkled. The champagne flowed. The cheap stuff poured into expensive bottles in the back. And the band played loud top 40 hits. Derek was feeling good. The alcohol had numbed his anxiety.
He grabbed the microphone for his speech. “Thank you all for coming,” Derek slurred slightly, holding up his glass. They say success is the best revenge. Well, look around. I’d say I’m winning. I’ve got the beautiful wife, the career, the view. To ambition, to ambition, a few people shouted back, mostly his drunk friends.
Just then the matraee, a stern man named Hri, approached the head table. He looked uncomfortable. Mr. Bolton, a moment, please. Derek leaned down. Not now, Henry. I’m in the middle of a toast. It is regarding the final payment, sir. The card on file. It was declined. Derekfroze. Try it again. It’s a bank error. We tried it three times, sir.
And the backup card. And the third one. Henry’s voice was a whisper, but it felt like a scream. Per our contract, if payment isn’t settled by the entree service, we have to pause the bar. You can’t pause the bar? Derek hissed. Do you know who I am? I do, sir, but I also answer to the owners. Fine, Derek panicked.
I’ll write a check. Just keep the drinks flowing. As he argued with the staff, a murmur started rippling through the room. It wasn’t the happy buzz of a wedding. It was the sharp electric sound of gossip. Derek looked up. People weren’t looking at him. They were looking at the massive projection screen set up on either side of the stage.
They were supposed to be playing a slideshow of Derek and Jessica’s relationship photos. But someone had changed the input. Instead of photos of Jessica in a bikini, the screens were displaying a live news feed from CNBC. The volume was off, but the Chirons were huge. Breaking news. Sinclair Media Group acquires Stratton Oakmont Banking Division.
New chairwoman Lydia Hart Sinclair promises cleaning house of toxic leadership. Derek blinked. He rubbed his eyes. The name on the screen, Lydia Hart Sinclair. And then the image changed. It was a pre-recorded interview. Lydia was sitting in a power suit, looking directly into the camera. The subtitles ran across the bottom.
Interviewer, what is your first move as the head of this new empire? Lydia, we need to trim the fat. There is a culture of arrogance in our financial division that I intend to root out immediately. Competence will be rewarded. Ego will be terminated. The room went dead silent. Every eye in the ballroom turned from the screen to Derek. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Then it buzzed again and again. It was a continuous vibration. He pulled it out. A text from Marcus Sterling, who was sitting at table 3. Derek, check your email. HR just sent out the restructuring notices. You’re effective immediately. Derek looked over at table 3. Sterling wasn’t looking at him.
He was busy typing on his phone, likely trying to save his own skin. Derek. Jessica pulled on his sleeve. Why is your ex-wife on the TV? And why does it say she’s a billionaire? You told me she was poor. I Derek’s mouth was dry. I didn’t know. She bought the bank. Kyle shouted from the groomsman table, drunk and tactless.
Dude, your ex-wife just bought your job. A ripple of laughter went through the room. It wasn’t friendly laughter. It was the sound of 300 people realizing that the emperor had no clothes. “Then Henri the Metrade returned. He wasn’t whispering anymore.” “Mr. Bolton,” Henry said loud enough for the head to hear.
“I just received a call from corporate ownership.” corporate? Derek stammered. Yes, the Prestige Hospitality Group was acquired recently. The new owner called personally. She wanted to extend a gift. Derek felt a glimmer of hope. Lydia still loved him. She was doing this to show off, but she would save him. “A gift? She’s covering the bill.
” “No, sir,” Henry said, his face stone cold. She instructed us to enforce the contract strictly since the payment was declined. The event is officially over. Security will now escort the guests out. However, Henry paused, pulling a small envelope from his jacket. She asked me to give you this. Derek took the envelope with shaking hands.
The music had stopped. The lights were being turned up to the harsh cleaning setting. Jessica was sobbing, mascara running down her face. Derek opened the card. Inside was a simple note written in elegant cursive. Derek, you always wanted a story that people would remember. Now you have one. P.S. I want the cat back. Ellie, the gift wasn’t money.
It wasn’t a bailout. It was the public execution of his ego. Everybody out. A security guard bellowed from the back. As the guests shuffled out, whispering and pointing, Derek Bolton stood in the center of the empty dance floor, a maxed out credit card in one hand and a note from the billionaire he discarded in the other.
He had wanted to be the main character. He just didn’t realize he was the villain who loses in the end. The parking lot of Ohika Castle was a chaotic scene of ruined expectations. It was raining now, a sudden torrential downpour that felt like the universe was washing away the last remnants of Derek’s dignity.
Jessica was sitting on the curb in her $20,000 custom gown. The hem dragged through a puddle of oil and mud. She wasn’t crying anymore. She was screaming into her phone trying to get an Uber. But the surge pricing was astronomical because 300 guests were all trying to leave at once.
Derek, she shrieked as he trudged toward her, his jacket soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead. My mother had to hitch a ride with your college roommate in a Honda Civic. Do you understand the humiliation? Do you? Jess, please. Derek pleaded, reaching for her. It’s a misunderstanding. I’ll fix it on Monday. I’ll go to the bank.You don’t have a bank.
She spat, slapping his hand away. You don’t have a job. Did you think I didn’t hear your boss? You’re fired, Derek. And if you’re fired, how are we going to pay for this dress or the apartment? She stood up, her eyes wild. You told me you were a player. You told me you were going to be a CEO.
You’re nothing but a fraud in a rented suit. I did this for us,” Derek yelled back, his voice cracking. “To give you the life you wanted?” “No!” Jessica sneered, pulling off the massive engagement ring. She looked at it for a second, debating whether to keep it. Then she realized something. “Is this even real, or is this fake like everything else?” “It’s real. I spent.
I don’t care,” she interrupted. She didn’t throw the ring back. She shoved it into her purse. I’m keeping it as compensation for wasting the best year of my youth. A black SUV pulled up. It wasn’t for Derek. It was for Jessica. The window rolled down and to Derek’s horror, his best friend, Kyle, was in the driver’s seat.
“Need a lift, Jess?” Kyle asked, not even looking at Derek. “Kyle?” Derek stared, betrayed. “What are you doing?” Sorry, man. Kyle shrugged. Business is business, and you’re bad for business right now. Plus, I’ve always thought Jess deserved better. Jessica hopped into the car without a backward glance. Derek watched as his wife of 3 hours drove off with his best friend, leaving him standing alone in the rain with a bill for $150,000 that he couldn’t pay.
The next morning was worse. Derek woke up on the couch of his apartment, the one he had bragged about, the one with the lease that was 3 months overdue. His head was pounding. He reached for his phone, hoping the previous night had been a nightmare. It wasn’t. He had 500 new notifications, but they weren’t congratulations. Someone, probably one of Jessica’s influencer friends, had live streamed the moment the news broke on the screens.
The video was trending on Tik Tok and Twitter under the hashtag Sask the broke groom and karma wedding. The video showed Derek’s face crumbling as Lydia’s interview played. It showed the metradee cutting him off. It showed the guests laughing. Comments flooded in. Imagine dumping a billionaire for a broke influencers. The level of fumble here is historic.
She bought his bank. That is queen behavior. I was at this wedding. The cake was dry, just like his bank account. Derek threw the phone across the room. It cracked against the wall. He needed to think. He needed a plan. He was a survivor, right? He was a shark. Sharks kept moving. He showered, put on his only clean suit, and decided to go to the Stratton Oakmont office.
Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe he could talk to Sterling. Maybe if he just explained that it was a misunderstanding, he could keep his job. He arrived at the glass skyscraper at 9 more cesara. He walked to the turn styles, swiping his badge. Beep beep. Access denied. He tried again. Access denied. Sir.
A large security guard stepped forward. Derek recognized him. He had walked past this man every day for 5 years without ever learning his name. “My badge is acting up,” Derek said, forcing a confident smile. “Can you buzz me in?” “Mr. Bolton,” the guard said, his face impassive. “I’ve been instructed to collect your badge. You are not permitted on the premises.
” “This is illegal,” Derek shouted, causing people in the lobby to turn. I have personal items in my office, my contacts, my deal sheets. Your personal items have been boxed and are waiting at the service entrance, the guard said, pointing to the back door. Everything else is company property, including the deal sheets.
I want to see Sterling, Derek demanded. Mr. Sterling has been reassigned to a regional branch in, I believe, North Dakota, the guard said. The new management is making a lot of changes. Derek felt the blood drain from his face. North Dakota. That was a death sentence in the finance world. Who authorized this? Derek whispered. The guard pointed to the massive digital screen in the lobby, which usually displayed stock prices.
Today, it displayed a welcome message for the new ownership group. Welcome to Sinclair Financial. integrity, vision, accountability, and there in the corner of the screen was a photo of the board of directors. Lydia sat at the head of the table, looking powerful, serene, and utterly untouchable. Derek grabbed his box of stuff from the loading dock. It was raining again.
As he walked toward the subway because his Uber account was suspended due to the failed payments, he saw a billboard. It was an ad for a new luxury watch. The model wearing it looked familiar. It was the guy Jessica had been networking with on Instagram for months. Derek realized then that the bottom wasn’t the wedding.
The bottom was just beginning. 3 weeks later, Derek was living in a motel in Queens. His landlord had evicted him within 48 hours of the wedding disaster, citing a breach of lease regarding running a business fromthe premises. A lie. But Derek couldn’t afford a lawyer to fight it. He spent his days drinking cheap coffee and furiously googling legal statutes.
He had convinced himself of a new narrative. Lydia had defrauded him. She hid assets. Derek ranted to the empty motel room. That’s illegal. If she was rich when we were married, I’m entitled to half. Alimony. I deserve alimony. It became his obsession. If he could just prove that she had the money while they were together, he could sue her for millions. He could get back on top.
He sold his last Rolex to pay for a consultation with a shark of a divorce attorney named Saul. Saul’s office was above a falafel shop, but he had a reputation for being vicious. “So, let me get this straight,” Saul said, chewing on a toothpick. “You dumped her. You signed the divorce papers uncontested, and now you want to reopen the settlement because you found out she’s rich.” “She lied by omission.
” Derek slammed his fist on the cheap laminate desk. “She pretended to be a librarian. That’s fraud. I suffered emotional distress living in poverty with her when we could have been living in a penthouse. Saul looked at Derek with pity. Mr. Bolton, did you ask her for financial disclosure during the divorce? No, Derek scoffed. I thought she had nothing.
I wanted a clean break. So, you waved discovery? Saul scribbled on a notepad. And did she inherit this money during the marriage? I don’t know, Derek admitted. But she’s a Sinclair. She must have had a trust fund. I did some digging before you came in, Saul said, sliding a piece of paper across the desk.
Lydia Hart Sinclair’s grandmother, the matriarch, passed away 3 weeks after your divorce was finalized. The title and the bulk of the estate transferred to Lydia upon that death. Before that, she was living on a librarian’s salary by choice, refusing access to the family funds until she was 35 or the matriarch passed.
Derek stared at the paper. The dates were mocking him. Divorce. Finalized September 1st. Date of inheritance September 22nd. She played you. Saul chuckled darkly. But legally, she’s clean. She didn’t have the money when you were married. She got it after you left. You missed the payout by 21 days. 21 days. Derek felt like he couldn’t breathe.
If he had just waited, if he hadn’t been so eager to marry Jessica, if he had just stayed a little longer, he would be the husband of a billionaire. He would be powerful. There has to be something, Derek pleaded. Emotional damages. She embarrassed me publicly at my wedding. You invited her, Saul reminded him, and she didn’t say anything untrue.
She just played a video. Truth is an absolute defense against defamation. Saul closed the file. Go home, kid. You got beat. The best thing you can do is disappear before she decides to sue you for legal fees. But Derek couldn’t let it go. He began stalking her. Not physically, he couldn’t get within five miles of her security team, but digitally he watched every interview. He read every article.
He saw her at the Met Gala wearing a red dress that looked like liquid fire, walking arm in-armm with a man. Derek squinted at the screen. The man was handsome, distinguished. He was a French architect named Luke who was known for restoring historic castles. Derek looked at the halfeaten pizza on his bed.
“I need to talk to her,” he decided. “If I can just look her in the eye, I can remind her of what we had. She loved me once. She was obsessed with me. I just need 5 minutes.” He found out she was speaking at a charity gala for literacy at the public library the following Tuesday. It was a public event technically.
Derek spent his last $50 on a haircut. He put on his suit, which was now slightly loose because he had lost weight from stress. He arrived at the library steps. There were paparazzi everywhere. He waited in the crowd, shivering in the cold November wind. Finally, a black limousine pulled up. The crowd cheered. Lydia stepped out. She looked radiant, happy, and lighter than she ever had with him.
“Lydia!” Derek screamed, pushing through the crowd. “Lydia! It’s me, Derek!” The security guards tensed, but Lydia paused. She turned her head. She saw him. For a second, Derek thought he saw a flicker of emotion. He lunged forward. “Lydia, please. I made a mistake. We need to talk.” Lydia didn’t move toward him.
She simply adjusted her coat, leaned over to her bodyguard, and whispered something. The bodyguard nodded. He walked over to Derek, who was now being held back by a police officer. “Mr. Bolton?” the bodyguard asked. “Yes, tell her I’m here. Tell her I love her.” The bodyguard handed him a small sealed envelope. Ms.
Sinclair prepared this in case you showed up. She predicted you would. Derek ripped it open, his hands trembling. He expected a phone number, a meeting time, a check. Inside was a photo. It was a picture of the two of them from 5 years ago eating pizza on the floor of their first apartment. Derek looked bored in the photo, lookingat his phone.
Lydia looked at him with pure adoration. On the back she had written, “I loved this man, but you aren’t him anymore. And honestly, Derek, I don’t think you ever were. Goodbye.” Derek looked up. Lydia was already gone, disappearing into the golden light of the library, the doors closing with a heavy final thud.
He stood there as the paparazzi snapped photos of his crying face. He knew this would be another meme by morning. The descent wasn’t a cliff. It was a long, humiliating slide. In the first month after the wedding disaster, Derek still believed he could fix it. He treated his unemployment like a temporary sbatical. He spent his mornings in Starbucks, nursing a single coffee for 4 hours while aggressively messaging head hunters on LinkedIn.
He wore his suits, though they were beginning to smell faintly of the mildew from his damp basement apartment in Queens. “It’s just a misunderstanding with the previous management,” Derek told a recruiter over the phone, pacing outside the coffee shop. “I was a top producer. My numbers speak for themselves.
” “I’ve seen your numbers, Mr. Bolton,” the recruiter replied, her voice cold. But I’ve also seen the compliance report from Stratton Oakmont and the viral video. Frankly, you’re radioactive. No reputable firm in the tri-state area will touch you. Have you considered another industry? Derek hung up.
He threw his phone into a trash can, then immediately fished it out because he couldn’t afford a new one. By month three, the denial cracked. The money from the pawned watches ran out. The Porsche was repossessed in the middle of the night. A tow truck driver named S banging on his door at 3:0 a.m. demanding the keys.
Derek watched from the window as the symbol of his success was dragged away, leaving oil stains on the pavement. He moved again, this time to a room share in Weihawan, New Jersey. His roommate was a conspiracy theorist who didn’t believe in deodorant. Derek stopped wearing suits. He started wearing a gray hoodie that he hadn’t washed in weeks. He stopped shaving.
The face in the mirror, the sharp, arrogant face of a senior vice president, had dissolved into something puffy, tired, and defeated. He tried to find Jessica once. He saw on Instagram that she was in Dubai tagging a 50-year-old oil consultant in her photos. She looked happy, or at least expensive. She hadn’t mentioned Derek once.
It was as if he had never existed. By month 8, Derek Bolton, the man who once drank $12 sparkling water, was washing dishes at the Golden Griddle, a 24-hour diner off Route 3. One year later, the diner smelled of burnt bacon, floor cleaner, and despair. The fluorescent lights buzzed with a headacheinducing hum that seemed to drill directly into Derek’s skull.
“Order up! Tuna melt, side of slo, table four,” Derek wiped his hands on his stained apron. “I got it,” he muttered, his voice raspy from too many cigarettes and not enough conversation. He picked up the plate. His hands, once manicured and soft, were red and chapped from the industrial dish soap.
He walked to table four, his orthopedic sneakers squeaking on the lenolum. At the table sat a young family. The father was on his phone, ignoring his kids. He was wearing a suit, ill-fitting, polyester, but a suit nonetheless. He looked stressed, important in his own mind. Here you go, Derek said, placing the sandwich down. Can I get you anything else? Yeah, more coffee.
The man snapped without looking up. And make it quick. I’ve got a conference call in 10 minutes. Big deal closing. Derek looked at the man. He saw the cheap watch that was trying to look like a Rolex. He saw the desperate set of the jaw. He saw himself from 5 years ago. Right away, sir,” Derek said softly. He walked back to the counter, pouring the coffee with a steady hand.
He wasn’t angry anymore. He was just tired. The rage had burned out months ago, leaving behind a hollow cavern where his ambition used to be. “Hey, Bolton,” the manager, a greased tyrant named Greek Mike, shouted from the pass through window. “Quit staring at the customers and check the grease trap. It’s backing up again.
“I’m going, Mike,” Derek said. He grabbed the mop bucket. As he passed the front counter, he paused. The small television mounted in the corner, usually playing reruns of Jeopardy or local traffic reports, was tuned to CNBC. The Chiron at the bottom of the screen caught his eye. Sinclair Media Group posts record Q3 profits, shares up 15%.
Derek stopped. He couldn’t help it. Turn it up, he whispered to the waitress, distinct longing in his voice. What? She popped her gum. Please, just for a second, she shrugged and pointed the remote. The volume rose. Anchor. And leading this historic turnaround is the chairwoman herself, Lydia Hart Sinclair.
She joins us live from the Sinclair estate in the Hamptons. The screen shifted. Derek stopped breathing. Lydia was sitting on a white stone terrace, the ocean glittering behind her. She looked breathtaking.Not just rich, though the cream cashmere sweater and the simple pearl earrings screamed quiet luxury, but radiant.
She looked settled. The nervousness, the desire to please that had defined her during their marriage was gone. In its place was a steel spine wrapped in velvet. Next to her sat a man. He was tall with salt and pepper hair and kind eyes. He was holding a hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles on her skin.
This was Luke Dubois, the architect. Interviewer. Lydia. A year ago, you were a mystery to the financial world. Now, you’re an icon. You took a legacy company that was drowning in debt and bad culture, and you turned it into a powerhouse. How did you handle the pressure, especially with everything else going on in your personal life back then? Derek leaned against the counter, clutching the mop handle like a lifeline.
He waited for her to mention him. He waited for the anger. He wanted her to be angry. If she was angry, it meant he still mattered. Lydia smiled. It was a soft, private smile. Lydia, it wasn’t easy, she said, her voice clear and melodious. I spent a long time hiding who I was. I thought that if I made myself smaller, I would fit better into someone else’s life.
I thought love meant diminishing yourself so the other person could feel big. She squeezed Lucy’s hand. He looked at her with such open admiration that Derek felt a physical pain in his chest. Lydia. But I learned that you can’t build a castle on a foundation of sand. I had to clear the wreckage. I had to remove the dead weight.
Once I did that, once I stopped trying to impress people who didn’t see me, I realized I had everything I needed all along. Interviewer. And now you’re engaged. Lydia. Yes, she beamed. To a man who builds things instead of destroying them. A man who loves the library as much as the boardroom. I finally found my equal.
Interviewer: Any advice for those watching who feel stuck? Lydia looked directly into the camera. For a terrifying second, Derek felt like she was looking through the screen, past the grease and the diner, directly into his soul. Lydia, don’t chase the shine, she said softly. Gold paint flakes off. Look for the solid iron underneath.
And never ever let someone tell you that your quietness is a weakness. It’s your greatest strength. The segment ended. The anchor moved on to the weather. Derek stood there frozen. She hadn’t named him. She hadn’t insulted him. She hadn’t even acknowledged his existence. He wasn’t a villain to her anymore. He was nothing. He was just the dead weight she had cleared away to make room for her real life.
Bolton, Mike yelled. The floor ain’t going to mop itself. Move it. Derek blinked, the spell breaking. Yeah, coming. He dragged the heavy bucket across the floor. The gray water sloshed over the rim, soaking his cheap sneakers. He pushed the mop back and forth. Swish, swish. Outside the large plate glass window, the rain had started to fall.
A shiny red convertible pulled up to the curb, splashing a pedestrian. A young man hopped out, talking loudly on his phone, laughing as he checked his reflection in the window. He looked ambitious. He looked hungry. He looked like an idiot. Derek paused, his hand gripping the mop. He wanted to run out there. He wanted to bang on the glass.
He wanted to scream, “It’s a trap. The status, the likes, the upgrade, it’s all a trap. Go home to the girl who knits. go home to the quiet one. But he didn’t move. He knew the kid wouldn’t listen. Narcissists never listen until the silence becomes deafening. Derek looked back at the TV, but the screen had changed to a commercial for life insurance. Lydia was gone.
He looked down at his reflection in the dark, dirty water of the mop bucket. The man staring back looked old. Table 6 needs ketchup, the waitress yelled. On it, Derek whispered. He turned his back on the window, on the rain, and on the memory of the life he had thrown away. He walked back into the kitchen, the swinging doors closing behind him with a final hollow thud, leaving him exactly where he belonged, in the back of the house, while the real owners of the world dined out front.
And that is the story of Derek Bolton, a man who thought he was upgrading his life only to realize he had thrown away a winning lottery ticket. It’s a brutal reminder that grass isn’t always greener on the other side. Sometimes it’s just artificial turf painted to look pretty. Derek chased status, validation, and superficial beauty, and in the process he lost the only genuine thing he ever had.
Lydia proved that real power doesn’t need to shout. It moves in silence, waits for the right moment, and strikes with absolute precision. She didn’t need revenge. She just needed to let Derek be himself. And that was punishment enough. So the next time you feel tempted to trade in a loyal partner for something flashy, remember the rain soaked parking lot at O’Hare Castle.
