Chapter 8 - The Cost of Followers
While Ethan was being led through the basement service exit of Northbridge Capital in handcuffs to avoid the initial swarm of financial press, Madison Brooks was experiencing a disaster of an entirely different kind.
Her high-floor duplex in Tribeca—the one she had boasted about incessantly on TikTok and Instagram—was in utter chaos. Suitcases lay open across the white sheepskin rugs, and designer dresses were strewn over every surface like the wreckage of an expensive storm.
Her phone was vibrating so continuously on the marble kitchen island that it was slowly inching toward the edge.
"Pick up, you coward!" Madison screamed into her screen, dialing Ethan’s private number for the thirtieth time. "Ethan! The movers are here! The landlord’s security is at the front desk! Pick up!"
The call went straight to automated voicemail: *The mailbox is full and cannot accept new messages.*
"Dammit!" She hurled the phone onto the velvet sofa.
Just then, her publicist, Chloe, burst through the front door, panting and clutching an iPad.
"Madison, stop packing your shoes. Look at this." Chloe shoved the screen into Madison’s face.
The screen displayed the front page of the *Wall Street Journal* digital edition. A grainy, high-resolution photograph showed Ethan Bennett, hands cuffed behind his back, his head ducked low as federal agents guided him into an unmarked black sedan outside Northbridge Capital.
The headline read: **NORTHBRIDGE CAPITAL COLLAPSES UNDER FORENSIC FRAUD AUDIT; MANAGING DIRECTOR ETHAN BENNETT ARRESTED.**
Madison’s stomach dropped into a bottomless void. Her perfectly contoured face went grey.
"Arrested?" she whispered, her voice shrill. "What do you mean, arrested? What about our lease? The landlord said our security deposit bounced this morning! He gave us two hours to clear out!"
"The lease was signed under an LLC tied to Ethan’s offshore shell accounts," Chloe said ruthlessly. "The feds froze every single dollar forty minutes ago. Madison, your credit cards are declined. The PR agency just dropped you. And look at your comments."
Madison snatched the iPad with shaking fingers, opening her Instagram app.
Her last post—a video from the gala showing her twirling in her emerald gown with the caption: *With my king, entering our billionaire era #WaverlyGala #PowerCouple*—had over forty thousand comments.
*“Billionaire era? More like federal penitentiary era!”*
*“You wore a dress bought with stolen pension funds, you fake!”*
*“The real billionaire was the ex-wife he threw away. Look at @ClaireWaverly!”*
*“Unfollowing. Complete fraud.”*
Her follower count was plummeting in real time. Thousands every minute. Brands she had multi-year endorsement contracts with were releasing public statements across X: *Lumière Cosmetics has severed all ties with influencer Madison Brooks effective immediately.*
A sharp knock rattled the front door.
Two men in dark suits entered, followed by building management and a locksmith carrying a heavy toolbox.
"Ms. Brooks?" the taller man said, displaying an official badge. "We are with the United States Marshals Service, Asset Forfeiture Division. This property and all contents purchased with funds derived from Northbridge escrow accounts are currently under federal seizure."
"What?!" Madison shrieked, clutching a vintage Hermès Birkin bag against her chest. "These are my clothes! These are gifts!"
"Receipts indicate this bag was purchased three weeks ago via wire transfer from Aegis Consulting," the marshal replied without an ounce of sympathy. "Hand it over, Ms. Brooks. Along with the jewelry, the designer watches, and that Cartier bracelet on your wrist."
"You can't do this!" she sobbed, backing toward the panoramic window. "I didn't know anything about his business! I’m an influencer! I’m a victim here!"
"You can explain that to the magistrate at your deposition," the officer said coldly, holding out a brown evidence bag. "The bracelet, please. Or we charge you with obstruction right now."
Crying hysterically, Madison fumbled with the tiny screwdriver clasp of the gold bracelet Ethan had bought her to celebrate their engagement. Her hands shook so hard she dropped the tool twice. As the heavy gold band fell into the marshal's evidence bag, she caught her reflection in the full-length mirror.
Her hair was a tangled nest, her mascara ran in black streaks down her cheeks, and the luxury life she had built on vanity and another woman’s heartbreak had evaporated into thin air in less than twelve hours.
"Where am I supposed to go?" Madison wailed, looking around the barren, half-packed apartment.
May you like
"Not our concern, ma'am," the building manager said flatly, holding the front door open. "You have ten minutes before the locks are changed."
***
