Chapter 6 - THE PARANOIA OF POWER
Julian was hiding in a cheap motel in New Jersey.
The smell of mildew and stale smoke filled the air.
He was terrified.
Every knock at the door made him jump.
Every siren outside sounded like the police coming to arrest him.
He had no money,
no credit cards,
no friends.
He had burned every bridge he had ever built.
He spent his days staring at the television,
watching the coverage of his downfall.
They called him the "Vulture of Wall Street."
They called him a fraud.
They called him a criminal.
He tried to call his old associates,
but they wouldn't answer.
He was toxic.
He was radioactive.
He sat on the edge of the bed,
the television flickering with images of his own face.
He thought about Evelyn.
He thought about the way she had looked at the gala.
She had won.
She had beaten him at his own game.
He had always thought of her as a possession,
an accessory.
He had never seen her as an equal,
much less an enemy.
That was his biggest mistake.
He looked at his hands.
They were shaking,
stained with dirt and despair.
He remembered the night he had thrown the scotch in her face.
He remembered the look in her eyes then.
It wasn't fear.
It was calculation.
He should have known then.
He should have ended it then.
But he had been too arrogant,
too sure of his own power.
He lay back on the pillow,
staring at the water-stained ceiling.
He was going to prison.
He knew it.
There was no escape.
He had too many enemies,
too many people who wanted to see him suffer.
He closed his eyes,
trying to remember a time when he was happy.
But all he could remember was the cold,
calculating face of his wife.
She was the last thing he saw before he fell into a fitful,
nightmare-filled sleep.
In his dreams,
Evelyn was the judge,
and he was the prisoner,
bound in chains of his own making.
He woke up screaming,
the room dark and silent.
He was alone.
He was completely and utterly alone.
The realization was worse than any prison cell.
He had everything,
and he had traded it all for a moment of ego.
He crawled to the bathroom,
splashing cold water on his face.
He looked at the mirror.
The man looking back was a stranger.
A broken,
shattered man.
He didn't recognize himself.
He didn't want to.
He sat on the floor,
May you like
curled into a ball,
and waited for the end.
