The penthouse was owned by a trust.
His personal debts exceeded his available assets by more than $100,000.
Her fingers tightened around the page.
“This is fake.”
“It was compiled from verified records.”
“He is closing a five-million-dollar investment.”
“No. He is hoping someone will give him five million dollars.”
“He owns the software.”
“That is currently being reviewed by attorneys.”
Madison glanced down at the coat around her shoulders.
“The company paid for that,” I said. “It will be included in the expense reconciliation. You can keep it. Consider it the last promotional item Northline acquired with my approval.”
She stood so suddenly that her handbag slipped from the chair.
“You are jealous because he chose someone who understands him.”
“No, Madison.”
I folded her furniture list and handed it back.
“You did not take a billionaire from me. You believed the story of a man whose lifestyle was financed by the wife he discarded.”
Her confidence cracked.
“Gavin has investors.”
“Then ask him to show you one completed wire transfer.”
She left without touching the espresso my assistant had brought.
Through the glass wall of my office, I watched her reach the elevator lobby and make a phone call.
The marble corridor carried her voice farther than she realized.
“Tell me the truth,” she said when Gavin answered. “She showed me statements.”
His reply was too quiet for me to hear.
Madison paced.
“She says the company has never earned money.”
Another pause.
Then her voice softened.
“What happens Friday?”
I moved closer to the doorway.
“The gala,” Madison repeated. “You promise?”
Whatever Gavin said reassured her.
By the time the elevator arrived, some of her confidence had returned.
“Five million,” she said. “And then none of this matters.”
The doors closed.
Friday was the annual Chicago Technology Foundation Gala at the Drake Hotel.
Northline was scheduled to present during the emerging-founders segment.
Gavin had apparently attracted the attention of Edward Montgomery, a venture investor known for making large early-stage commitments when he believed the technology was strong.
The gala was meant to be Gavin’s escape.
If he secured independent funding, he could revive Northline, replace the money I had withdrawn, and continue telling the world he had built everything alone.
I called Edward’s office.
We met the next afternoon in a private dining room overlooking Millennium Park.
Edward arrived precisely on time.
He was in his early sixties, with silver hair, exact manners, and no patience for people who treated preparation as optional.
I placed a leather folder between us.
“I understand Gavin Everly is seeking five million dollars from your fund.”
Edward’s expression did not change.
“He requested an opportunity to present.”
“Has your team completed due diligence?”
“Only a preliminary review.”
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