Chapter 3The Framed Fiancé

Two years ago, at a Crane family dinner, Mr. Slate had pulled my father and me aside. After a few pleasantries, he cautiously brought up a verbal marriage agreement made between my late grandfather and his own. As the Slate family's fortunes had waned, the pact had been all but forgotten.

Mr. Slate's words were earnest, his posture almost subservient, as he spoke of the old friendship between our families.

"Richard," he’d said to my father, "I know this is presumptuous. But my father's greatest wish was to see Isabelle settled. It's our fault, really. The Slate family just hasn't kept up…" He sighed, watching my father's face.

My father was a man of his word, especially when it came to his own father's wishes. "Nonsense, David," he replied. "If our fathers intended this, then it's our duty as their sons to see it through."

Having met Isabelle, I had agreed.

From that day forward, the Crane Corporation began to prop up Slate Industries. Once a struggling second-tier company, they were now flooded with massive orders, given access to unlimited lines of credit, and introduced to our most valuable contacts. Their business shot up like a rocket. Within two years, they went public, securing their place among the city's elite. Mr. Slate transformed from a man who bowed and scraped into the proud chairman of a publicly traded company.

As for Isabelle, I had fulfilled my duties as a fiancé. She loved jewelry, particularly the work of one European designer. I commissioned the artist to create a one-of-a-kind diamond necklace and earring set for her birthday, a project that took six months. She was the envy of all her friends. At every business dinner and private party, I treated her with the utmost respect. When a spoiled heir once spoke to her disrespectfully at a reception, I publicly humiliated him. The message was clear: Isabelle Slate was under my protection, and no one was to treat her as anything less.

I had used my resources to build her family an empire. I had used my patience and wealth to win her affection. I never imagined my reward would be this: a meticulously planned betrayal and a public crucifixion.

Back home, I called my father and laid out the night's events, including Mr. Slate's absurd phone call.

He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "The Crane family does not allow itself to be manipulated."

"If the Slates have chosen to disregard our history, then do what you must. I will back you, no matter what."

With my father's blessing, all restraints were gone.

I sent out a series of directives.

Effective immediately, Crane Corporation and all its subsidiaries were to terminate all business contracts with Slate Industries.

All our partners were to be notified that any continued association with Slate Industries would be considered a hostile act against Crane Corporation.

The orders went out in the dead of night. The vast, cold machinery of my family's empire began to turn.

The next morning, Crane Corp released a formal, impeccably worded statement announcing the termination of our partnership. It was like dropping a boulder into a calm lake. The financial news outlets exploded.

Slate Industries’ stock plummeted the second the market opened. It fell so fast that trading was automatically halted within thirty minutes.

I sat in my office, calmly watching the waterfall of red that represented their company on my screen. Soon, my personal phone rang. Isabelle's name flashed on the display.

I answered. Her voice was a hysterical shriek, a far cry from the tragic heroine of the previous night.

"TOBY! ARE YOU INSANE? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU'RE DOING?!"

"RETRACT THAT STATEMENT NOW! OR I'LL MAKE YOU REGRET IT!"

I didn't bother to respond. I hung up and blocked her number. Threats? She clearly hadn't grasped who held all the cards.

But the Slates' counterattack came faster—and was far dirtier—than I'd anticipated. By noon, the tide of public opinion began to turn.