Acid Rains of Fortune

Chapter 1. Angela Santiago Hart went into labor on the day her husband, Andrew, was sentenced for fraud, embezzlement, stock manipulation, lying to a grand jury and a host of other offenses. He received 25-40 years in a federal penitentiary and fines amounting to nearly $300,000,000. Angela had disliked Andrew almost from the beginning of their relationship and she had no illusions about her own moral status. Although she had little education and a rather tough face, she had a genius for attracting men, channeling their desires into everything from expensive jewelry to marriage proposals. Andrew Hart was merely the richest in a long line of men --- not clients exactly, as she never exchanged money for sex on an hourly or short-term basis --- but not really boyfriends either, as she had never experienced the slightest sentiment of affection or friendship towards any of them, even the two she had married. Realizing that she could not keep Andrew on her string forever, Angela’s pregnancy was designed to keep a large amount of money flowing in after he had disposed of her, as he had his other two families. But here, Andrew defrauded her, along with several hundred thousand investors. Angela’s pre-nuptial agreement had guaranteed her several million dollars in HartCom stock, now worthless. The fines and penalties took everything else. Try as she and her lawyers might, they could find no hidden assets or legal loopholes through which a few million or even thousand dollars could worm through. Angela was penniless. Aside from the nurses and a doctor she didn’t know, she was on her own in the labor room. She had cut herself off from her family and friends when she set out on her man-hunting career and had made no friends who were not part of Andrew’s now shattered circle. “Give me a C-section now,” she told the doctor. “But there’s no need, it’s doing beautifully,” he said. She was about to curse out the doctor but the thought of a scar from the C-section came to mind. No matter how small it was, it would still be visible and lower her status in the marketplace. Probably best to go through with it. “Just shoot me up with painkillers,” she said. “We can give you something to take the edge off, but we don’t want to harm the baby, do we?” “I don’t give a fuck about the baby, just give me the shots.” A beautiful, healthy baby boy finally emerged after a labor fueled by anger and a voluble hatred of men. “Take it away,” she said, as they presented her son to her. “I don’t want to see it.” “ You want it adopted?” asked a nurse. “You can throw it in the river for all I care,” said Angela. “You have to give him a name before we can let him leave the hospital.” “Basura,” said Angela, never suspecting what a major role he would play in her later life. “What kind of a name is that?” “Just write it down.” “It means ‘garbage,’” said a nurse’s assistant. “Choose another.”