The Wife He Underestimated Chapter 07
Three months later, Marcus’s world began to collapse in earnest.
I wasn’t actively destroying him. I didn’t need to. I’d simply removed the foundation I’d been providing for five years, and the entire structure was
crumbling under its own weight.
It started with the Chen Technologies merger–the one I’d spent six months orchestrating through my mother’s college roommate who sat on their board. Without that relationship, without my careful negotiations, the deal fell apart. Chen Technologies went with a European firm instead.
Steele Capital’s stock dropped another 8%.
Then the European expansion stalled. Turned out those “connections” Marcus thought he’d made himself were actually my family’s centuries–old relationships. Without my name quietly backing him, doors that had opened effortlessly now remained firmly closed.
His loan terms changed. Interest rates climbed. Credit lines tightened.
The bank president who’d given him such favorable conditions? My godfather. Who was now, understandably, less inclined to help a man who’d treated his goddaughter like a secretary.
I watched it all from London, where I’d set up my own fund. Moretti Capital Partners–boutique, specialized, deadly effective.
My first fund raised $2.3 billion in six weeks. Old money, new money, institutional investors who’d been waiting years for a Moretti to enter the market directly.
My second acquisition was a renewable energy startup in Norway–the one Moretti Group had passed on. I bought it for $50 million. Three months later, it was valued at $200 million.
Word spread quickly. The mystery fund manager who’d appeared from nowhere with a Moretti pedigree and an uncanny ability to predict market
movements.
Bloomberg ran a profile: “Isabelle Moretti: The Invisible Hand Behind Steele Capital’s Rise Now Building Her Own Empire.”
The article was devastating. It included interviews with business partners who, off the record, confirmed that they’d been dealing with Mrs. Steele more than Mr. Steele. That she’d been the strategic mind, the deal closer, the one who actually understood the markets.
Marcus’s ‘self–made billionaire” narrative evaporated overnight.
His board called an emergency meeting. Investors demanded explanations. How much of their success had been Marcus, and how much had been his ex–wde?
The answer was becoming painfully clear.
Alessandro forwarded me an article from the Wall Street Journal.
“Steele Capital in Freefall CEO Marcus Steele Faces Questions About Business Acumen After High–Profile Divorce.”
The article was clinical, brutal:
“Sources close to the situation suggest that Isabelle Moretti–Steele, now operating her own highly successful fund in London, was instrumental in
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+45 Coins
many of Steele Capital’s major successes. Since the divorce, filed by Mrs. Moretti–Steele six months ago, the company has failed to close a single major
deal. Stock prices have fallen 34%. Three board members have resigned.
When asked for comment, Mr. Steele’s office declined. Ms. Moretti’s office issued a brief statement: ‘Ms. Moretti wishes Mr. Steele well in his future
endeavors and has no further comment on their past relationship.”
I smiled when I read that. My PR team had crafted it perfectly–professional, cool, utterly dismissive.
My phone rang. Father.
“Have you seen the news?”
“About Marcus? Yes.”
“He’s finished. Another month like this and Steele Capital will be worthless.”
“I know.”
“Do you feel satisfied?”
I considered the question. “I feel… neutral. I didn’t destroy him, Papa. I just stopped building him up. This is what Marcus Steele looks like without me. Not impressive, is it?”
Father laughed. “No, tesoro. It’s not. How is your fund doing?”
“We’re up 47% this quarter. I’m opening a New York office next month.”
“Will you see him?”
“Marcus? No. Why would I?”
“He’s been trying to reach me. Asking for an introduction, for advice, for-”
“For me to save him again.”
“Yes.”
“Tell him no.”
“I already did. I just wanted you to know he’s desperate.”
“Good. Maybe desperation will teach him something.”
After we hung up, I stood at my office window, looking out at London’s skyline. My corner office in Mayfair, my name on the door, my team downstairs closing deals that would make headlines tomorrow.
I’d built this in three months. What had taken Marcus five years to build with my help, I’d surpassed in a quarter working alone.
Because I was never the assistant.
I was always the architect.
Marcus was learning that now
But it was far too late.
