CHAPTER ONE Red Envy
Nobody knows the truth about stars. The truth is what they want the public to believe, and for years – for decades, in fact – the truth about Envy was that she lived in the rarified world of breathtaking beauty, incredible luck, unsurpassed luxury, and never-ending riches.
‘Bullshit.’
‘I’m sorry, Envy, but the facts speak for themselves.’ January Knight, the head of the Los Angeles region for Platinum Nation’s Private Wealth Management Division, delivered the words with an expression as severe asher look – flame-red hair slicked back into a neat ponytail, minimal makeup on a pale, could-be-beautiful-if-she-tried face, and a conservatively cut navy business suit with a no-nonsense white silk blouse and sensible low-heeled pumps.
Envy began pacing the expansive living area of the London Hotel’s Princess Diana suite. ‘It can’t all be gone. I have investments . . . I have real estate holdings.’ She stopped moving and gave this female financial robot an imperious glare. ‘You don’t have a full account.’
‘I wish that were the case. But the numbers don’t lie.’
Envy stared at the Perrier-Jouët sweating in the champagne bucket, its ice long melted down. It was only 9:00 A.M. and she wanted the whole bottle. She cut an annoyed glance at January. ‘Where’s Tyson Morgan? He’s the man I hired. I’ve never even met you.’
January appeared impervious to the shoot-the-messenger routine. ‘Tyson only handles clients at certain asset levels.’
‘So I’m famous enough to solicit but not rich enough to look after?’ Envy’s laugh was bitter. She coldly zeroed in on January. ‘Well, if I’m as broke as you say, then you must be the lowest grunt at the firm.’
‘Actually, I’m among the best. Situations like yours represent some of our more difficult cases.’
‘I just don’t believe that everything’s gone,’ Envy said tightly. ‘It can’t be.’
‘You need to see it on paper,’ January said, gesturing for Envy to join her at the small table where the offending proof was spread out. ‘Except for your homes, your entire fortune was invested with Marc Cohen.’
Envy recoiled. Just hearing the name spoken out loud physically sickened her.
Marc Cohen, financial advisor. Marc Cohen, fraudulent son-of-a-bitch. After being charged with stealing $79 million from his clients, the media had christened the slick young Ponzi scheme mastermind a ‘baby Bernie Madoff.’ The cute nickname belied the brutal damage done to his victims.
‘When they find the money—’
‘That could take years,’ January cut in. ‘And recovery – if any at all – will be fractional.’
Finally, Envy called up the courage to sit down at the table, but she could not bring herself to so much as glance at the documents. The reality frightened her too much. ‘At least I still have real estate.’
‘Your homes are heavily mortgaged – up to one hundred percent or more in all cases. Property values took a big hit during the economic crisis. You’re upside down everywhere – the main house in Beverly Hills, the beach house in Miami, and the ski chalet in Aspen.’
‘So they’re worthless?’
‘The holdings have no equity value. Selling – if you’re lucky enough to find a buyer – won’t generate income. And that’s the immediate concern – income for living expenses. You have no revenue coming in.’
Envy attempted to study the records for several long, confused seconds. She could not read the language of finance. She could only speak it. $7 million to star in a romantic comedy. $3 million to record a pop/dance album. Those were numbers that she understood. But it had been a long time since she had heard figures like that concerning her career.
In a fit of frustration, Envy pushed the papers away and just looked at January. ‘Give it to me straight. How bad is it?’
‘Your bank accounts are overdrawn, and your credit cards are maxed out.’ She paused a beat
Nobody knows the truth about stars. The truth is what they want the public to believe, and for years – for decades, in fact – the truth about Envy was that she lived in the rarified world of breathtaking beauty, incredible luck, unsurpassed luxury, and never-ending riches.
‘Bullshit.’
‘I’m sorry, Envy, but the facts speak for themselves.’ January Knight, the head of the Los Angeles region for Platinum Nation’s Private Wealth Management Division, delivered the words with an expression as severe asher look – flame-red hair slicked back into a neat ponytail, minimal makeup on a pale, could-be-beautiful-if-she-tried face, and a conservatively cut navy business suit with a no-nonsense white silk blouse and sensible low-heeled pumps.
Envy began pacing the expansive living area of the London Hotel’s Princess Diana suite. ‘It can’t all be gone. I have investments . . . I have real estate holdings.’ She stopped moving and gave this female financial robot an imperious glare. ‘You don’t have a full account.’
‘I wish that were the case. But the numbers don’t lie.’
Envy stared at the Perrier-Jouët sweating in the champagne bucket, its ice long melted down. It was only 9:00 A.M. and she wanted the whole bottle. She cut an annoyed glance at January. ‘Where’s Tyson Morgan? He’s the man I hired. I’ve never even met you.’
January appeared impervious to the shoot-the-messenger routine. ‘Tyson only handles clients at certain asset levels.’
‘So I’m famous enough to solicit but not rich enough to look after?’ Envy’s laugh was bitter. She coldly zeroed in on January. ‘Well, if I’m as broke as you say, then you must be the lowest grunt at the firm.’
‘Actually, I’m among the best. Situations like yours represent some of our more difficult cases.’
‘I just don’t believe that everything’s gone,’ Envy said tightly. ‘It can’t be.’
‘You need to see it on paper,’ January said, gesturing for Envy to join her at the small table where the offending proof was spread out. ‘Except for your homes, your entire fortune was invested with Marc Cohen.’
Envy recoiled. Just hearing the name spoken out loud physically sickened her.
Marc Cohen, financial advisor. Marc Cohen, fraudulent son-of-a-bitch. After being charged with stealing $79 million from his clients, the media had christened the slick young Ponzi scheme mastermind a ‘baby Bernie Madoff.’ The cute nickname belied the brutal damage done to his victims.
‘When they find the money—’
‘That could take years,’ January cut in. ‘And recovery – if any at all – will be fractional.’
Finally, Envy called up the courage to sit down at the table, but she could not bring herself to so much as glance at the documents. The reality frightened her too much. ‘At least I still have real estate.’
‘Your homes are heavily mortgaged – up to one hundred percent or more in all cases. Property values took a big hit during the economic crisis. You’re upside down everywhere – the main house in Beverly Hills, the beach house in Miami, and the ski chalet in Aspen.’
‘So they’re worthless?’
‘The holdings have no equity value. Selling – if you’re lucky enough to find a buyer – won’t generate income. And that’s the immediate concern – income for living expenses. You have no revenue coming in.’
Envy attempted to study the records for several long, confused seconds. She could not read the language of finance. She could only speak it. $7 million to star in a romantic comedy. $3 million to record a pop/dance album. Those were numbers that she understood. But it had been a long time since she had heard figures like that concerning her career.
In a fit of frustration, Envy pushed the papers away and just looked at January. ‘Give it to me straight. How bad is it?’
‘Your bank accounts are overdrawn, and your credit cards are maxed out.’ She paused a beat
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