Chapter 8: Burned Bridges
"Come on, Greg, it’s just a temporary loan. A bridge until I get my consulting firm off the ground."
Julian paced the floor of his dingy studio apartment, the phone pressed tightly to his ear. The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. Greg had been his regular golf partner for three years, a man who happily drank top-shelf bourbon on Julian's dime at the country club.
"Look, Julian," Greg finally sighed, his tone dripping with discomfort. "I can't. Eleanor’s audit team has been going through the vendor contracts. If I send you money now, it looks like I was in on the kickbacks. You’re radioactive, man. I'm sorry, but lose my number."
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The line went dead. Julian threw the phone against the cheap drywall, leaving a dent.
He slid down the wall, putting his head in his hands. The realization was a bitter pill: he hadn't actually had friends. He had an audience. He had sycophants who were drawn to the power and wealth of the Vance name. Without Eleanor and the company, he was nothing but a broke, middle-aged man with a reputation for fraud. The isolation he felt was absolute, and he had no one to blame but himself.
