Five Dollars to Love a Billionaire

1 In my third year as Bennett Holt’s kept woman, my monthly allowance began to mysteriously evaporate. Most women in my position might have thrown a tearful tantrum, hurled crystal tumblers across the marble foyer, or locked themselves in the powder room wondering where their youth had gone wrong. Not me. I simply adjusted my service tier to match the incoming wire. When the deposit was light by one hundred thousand dollars, and he stayed out drinking with venture capitalists until two in the morning, I didn't bother sending a single Drink some water, honey text. When it dropped by two hundred thousand, and he stumbled in reeking of single malt, heaving into the entryway umbrella stand, I neatly stepped over the mess to finish my twenty-minute biocellulose sheet mask. When it plummeted by three hundred thousand on his thirty-fourth birthday, I handed him a cheap, handwritten card from a corner bodega, scrawled with deliberately sloppy penmanship, in which I spelled his last name Holdt with a defiant, unnecessary d. It was basic economics. You get what you pay for, and the quality of my affection was strictly pegged to the liquidity of the exchange. Then came the first of this month. My banking app chimed. The direct deposit cleared: $5.00. The transaction memo read: Spend it wisely. I stared at that single digit—a crisp Lincoln, barely enough for a drip coffee below 59th Street—and laughed out loud in the empty kitchen. I didn't even bother shedding my silk pajamas. I slipped my bare feet into four-inch Christian Louboutins, threw an oversized camel-hair coat over my shoulders, and hailed a cab straight to Midtown. I arrived at Holt Enterprises like an unguided missile. But just as my hand reached for the brass handle of Bennett’s corner office, his executive assistant’s voice filtered through the heavy acoustic mahogany. "Mr. Holt, Miss Mercer’s attitude lately has been atrocious simply because she thinks her allowance isn't generous enough," Whitney Adams was saying, her tone a masterclass in quiet, maternal concern. "Women like that... no matter how much you pour into them, their appetite is bottomless." Bennett’s deep baritone cut through, edged with irritation. "I authorized the private wealth desk to bump her monthly transfer from five hundred thousand to eight hundred thousand. It's still not enough?" A heavy silence lingered between them. The rustle of heavy bond paper followed. "Issue her a secondary black card," Bennett said curtly. "No spending cap. Call her driver. Tell her that when I walk through the penthouse door tonight, I want to see a smile on her face." Outside in the carpeted corridor, my smile was entirely dead. It wasn't that my billionaire benefactor had turned into a miser. It was that his loyal gatekeeper had turned me into her personal clearinghouse. Before I took up residence in Bennett’s penthouse, I spent five years surviving the cutthroat social circuits of Manhattan and the Hamptons. Men could withhold their hearts; they could withhold their loyalty; they could even withhold their company. But nobody touched my bottom line. Steal my maintenance funds? Sweetheart, you just stepped on a live wire. My fingers hovered over the brass latch for three beats before I forced them to loosen. What would bursting through those double doors accomplish right now? A screaming match in front of Bennett? Forcing a line-by-line reconciliation of my checking account against Whitney’s corporate ledgers? Bennett’s instinctive response was already written in his bones: Whitney has managed my life for five years. The moment I opened my mouth without receipts, I’d be branded the volatile, money-grubbing mistress picking a fight with an indispensable corporate soldier. The first rule of survival among high-society operators: Never sit at the table until you’ve counted every card in the deck. I slipped off the Louboutins, holding them by the red-lacquered soles, and pushed open the heavy door to the emergency stairwell. I walked down twelve flights of bare, chilled concrete in my bare feet. By the time I reached the sub-basement parking garage, the soles of my feet were numb, but the fog in my skull had burned off completely. Bennett had explicitly stated the number: eight hundred thousand dollars a month. My Chase account showed five dollars. Seven hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-five dollars hadn't just grown wings and migrated south for the winter. Back at the penthouse, I stripped out of the pajamas and pulled on the ivory slip dress Bennett favored—the bias-cut silk that made me look fragile, understated, and expensive. Then I had Martha, the domestic housekeeper, put a pot of restorative bone broth on the range before I sent her to her quarters. I sat alone in the living room, watching the skyline flicker against the Hudson. At eleven o'clock sharp, the front door clicked open. Bennett smelled of bourbon and boardroom cigars. Supporting his arm, guiding him over the threshold with practiced, domestic intimacy, was Whitney. She took his cashmere overcoat, hung it on the custom cedar hanger, and smoothed the lapels as though she owned the deed to the building. "Miss Mercer," Whitney said, looking up with a smooth, professional cadence, "Mr. Holt’s stomach is flared up. If you're giving him broth, make sure there’s no sugar or heavy garlic." I gave her a warm, compliant nod. "Thank you, Whitney. You work so hard." Whitney paused, caught off guard. She had clearly expected a cold shoulder or an icy glare. Instead, I stepped forward, took Bennett’s weight naturally against my shoulder, and eased him onto the sectional. Standing by the foyer, Whitney couldn't conceal the flicker of triumph in her eyes. In her mind, she had trained the pampered concubine into submission with a single sentence. Once the elevator doors closed behind her, I carried a porcelain bowl of broth to the sofa. Bennett took the spoon, glancing up with an arched brow. "Turned over a new leaf tonight?" "Didn't you say you wanted to see me smile?" His spoon halted halfway to his mouth. "Whitney told you?" "Mm." I smoothed the linen napkins over his knee, my voice light. "She mentioned you’re always keeping me in your thoughts." The tension in Bennett’s jaw melted. "She has a way with people." "She seems wonderful," I murmured, sitting beside him, leaning my cheek against his bicep like a docile housecat. "Does she handle all the household expenses, too?" "My calendar, corporate filings, domestic payroll, discretionary accounts—everything," Bennett said, leaning his head back against the cushions. "Five years. Never made a single error." I smiled into the fabric of his shirt. She never made an error because no one ever ran an audit. "Speaking of which," Bennett said, setting the bowl aside, his tone dipping into that dark, dangerous register he used when negotiating acquisitions. "What was that attitude over the last few months? Stepping over me when I was sick in the foyer? Misspelling my name on my birthday card?" He caught my chin, studying my face, waiting for an excuse. "Whitney even made excuses for you. Said you were young, restless, and that I shouldn't take it out on you." I lowered my lashes. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again." He held my gaze for two long seconds, searching for cracks, but I gave him nothing but serene repentance. Yet as he took the stairs toward the master suite, he stopped on the landing, glancing back down at me. "When you swung by the office this afternoon... were you really just dropping off dry cleaning?" I tilted my head, looking entirely innocent. "What else would I be doing?" "Nothing," he murmured, his gaze lingering before he turned away. "Get some sleep." I didn't sleep a wink. Curled up in the study armchair with my iPad glowing beneath the silk throw, I pulled three full years of banking records. Year One: Five hundred thousand dollars transferred on the first of every month, like clockwork. Year Two: Four hundred thousand. Then three hundred. Then two hundred. Over the last six months, the deposits had dwindled to sporadic trickles—fifty thousand, ten thousand, five thousand. And now, five dollars. Meanwhile, Bennett was under the impression he had raised the baseline to eight hundred thousand. The spread embezzled over the past eighteen months was enough to buy two penthouses in Tribeca outright. I ran a quick mental tally of the social landscape. The girls in my old circle were scraping by on thirty thousand a month from dried-up hedge-fund managers who demanded itemized receipts for Chanel vanity cases. A patron like Bennett Holt—one who paid eight hundred thousand without blinking and still remembered to ask for a smile when he was blind drunk—was a critically endangered species. A protected asset. You don't throw a temper tantrum and lose an asset like that. Direct confrontation? He had trusted Whitney for half a decade; he had known me for three years. In a war of he-said-she-said, the mistress loses every time. So, we play the long game. First, reclaim Bennett's instincts. Second, strip Whitney Adams of her skin, layer by agonizing layer. When the horizon over the East River began to turn slate blue, I set an alarm for six in the morning. Move one: A bowl of hot water and plain noodles. At six-thirty, I stood at the marble island, boiling a handful of dried egg noodles. The sub-zero refrigerator was completely bare—because the night before, I had quietly texted Martha and told her she could take a few paid days off to visit her daughter in upstate New York. One bowl. Two stalks of wilted bok choy. A single poached egg—the absolute last one left in the carton. When Bennett descended the floating staircase, freshly showered in a tailored charcoal suit, he stopped dead in his tracks. "Where’s Martha?" "I told her to take a long weekend with her family," I said softly, setting the bowl in front of his usual seat. "Why?" "I wanted to make you breakfast myself." No complaints. No martyrdom. Just quiet domesticity. He picked up his chopsticks, took a bite, then glanced between his bowl and mine. My bowl contained hot water, a few lonely strands of noodle, and half a scallion floating like driftwood. "Is that all you're eating?" "I'm cleansing," I replied with a faint, disciplined smile. Bennett’s chopsticks hovered. "You hate broth noodles. You used to complain if the truffles weren't shaved fresh." "People change, Bennett." I reached across the table, lifted the poached egg from my plate, and placed it gently atop his noodles. "Eat. I'm really not hungry." He didn't touch the egg. His dark eyes narrowed, fixing on me with razor-sharp intensity. "Sienna. What is going on?" "Nothing." "Then why are you suddenly living like an ascetic?" I rested my chin in my hands, meeting his gaze with absolute serenity. "Didn't you say it yourself? A woman shouldn't be too demanding." Those had been Whitney’s exact words to me three weeks ago in the lobby, spoken with that patronizing, elder-sister smirk: Mr. Holt works eighteen hours a day to build an empire; you shouldn't constantly have your hand out. I served it right back to him, word for word. Bennett’s brow furrowed into a hard ridge. "When did I ever tell you to live like this?" "You didn't." I lowered my head, stirring the hot water with my porcelain spoon. "I just... thought it was time I learned how to be sensible." He didn't say another word. But as I gathered the dishes to take them to the sink, I heard the sharp tap of his screen. He was dialing Whitney on speakerphone. Two rings. "Good morning, Mr. Holt." "Why hasn't the penthouse pantry been restocked?" A brief pause on the other end. "Miss Mercer mentioned last week that she wanted to tighten domestic overhead for a while. She told us not to order the usual specialty provisions." Bennett looked directly at my back as I stood by the stainless sink, soapy water running over my wrists. "When did she say that?" "A few days ago." Whitney’s voice turned honeyed, threaded with sudden, delicate remorse. "Did I overlook something? I assumed it was Miss Mercer’s personal preference." Bennett ended the call without another word. He stood by the kitchen island, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the marble, staring at me in silence. I turned around, drying my hands on a linen towel, offering him a radiant, untroubled smile. "Something wrong?" "Nothing," he said, his tone thick with an unreadable weight. "I’ll have a courier drop off provisions this afternoon." "Oh, please don't," I waved my hands hurriedly. "There’s half a box of spaghetti in the pantry. It'll last me days." Bennett’s expression darkened into an ominous, rigid mask. At ten that morning, I retrieved my matte-white Himalayan Niloticus Crocodile Birkin from the walk-in closet. It was a showpiece Bennett had won for me at a Christie's private auction three years ago. There weren't three like it in the entire state of New York. I didn't list it on an online resale platform. Instead, I drove down to a high-end luxury consignment salon on Madison Avenue. The boutique owner happened to be the first cousin of Charlotte Davenport. And Charlotte Davenport was the wife of Arthur Davenport, Bennett’s primary joint-venture partner—and the most prolific, weaponized loudspeaker in Manhattan high society. Before three o'clock, my phone was vibrating with Bennett’s contact card. "You consigned the Birkin?" His voice was tightly coiled, vibrating with suppressed fury. "Arthur Davenport just asked me over a private lunch if Holt Enterprises was having a cash-flow emergency." My voice came through the receiver soft enough to dissolve silk. "It was just sitting on the shelf gathering dust, Bennett. I wanted to turn it into cash to buy you a proper birthday gift this year. I've felt terrible about that misspelled card ever since." Dead silence on the line. The kind of silence that precedes an avalanche. "You have an unlimited secondary card," he growled. "Did you forget how to swipe it?" "Oh, come on," I chuckled softly. "You've already given me far more than enough." "Sienna Mercer." It was the first time in six months he had used my full legal name. "If you need money, you ask me directly." "I don't need money." I paused, letting my breath hitch just enough to be audible. "I just... I never wanted you to think I was only here for the wire transfers." The silence on the other end deepened into an abyss. When I hung up, I slipped the matte-black metal card from my wallet. It was brand new, issued through J.P. Morgan Private Bank. Unactivated. I had tried activating it that very morning. The automated banking system required an SMS authorization code sent to the primary mobile number on the master profile. The number linked to that profile was not mine. I didn't call the bank to complain. Some questions carry far more lethality when the benefactor asks them himself. That evening, Bennett sat across from me in the living room, dialed Whitney, and set the phone flat on the glass coffee table on speaker. "What's the status on Sienna’s secondary card?" Bennett asked, his tone level, completely devoid of inflection. Whitney answered on the first ring. "Mr. Holt, J.P. Morgan's risk-compliance department flagged the unlimited limit for manual underwriting. It’s undergoing routine clearance; it will be fully operational by tomorrow morning." "And Martha?" "Miss Mercer personally granted her domestic leave, sir." Whitney hesitated, her tone morphing into an apologetic sigh. "Mr. Holt... regarding the Birkin, please don't be too hard on her. She actually asked me once before if seasonal gifts could be redeemed for liquid cash. She’s young. It's completely natural for girls in her circle to want a private rainy-day fund." My fingers paused mid-air as I sliced a fresh pear. Masterful. With three sentences, she had painted my sacrifice as a covert, opportunistic cash grab. Bennett hung up the phone. When he looked at me, the warmth in his gaze had turned entirely sub-zero. "A rainy-day fund?" I leaned forward, offering a pristine slice of pear to his lips. "If I saved money, it would only be to spend it on you." He didn't open his mouth. He stood up, adjusted his cuffs, and retreated into his study, shutting the door firmly behind him. At two in the morning, I refreshed my Instagram feed. A private story from Whitney’s personal account appeared. A high-resolution photo of a leather-wrapped key fob bearing the golden crest of a Porsche 911 Carrera. The caption: A woman who relies on herself will always find her own luck. I pinched the screen, zooming in on the metallic badge and the stitching of the leather. Then, I took a screenshot and archived it. Relies on herself? More like relying on my monthly direct deposit. The next afternoon, I met Tess Monroe for tea at the Baccarat Hotel. Back when I was navigating the socialite trenches, Tess was the only woman who never stabbed me in the back. She had since pivoted, securing an executive director seat at a tier-one private wealth firm, catering exclusively to ultra-high-net-worth liquidity. I slid my phone across the crystal tabletop. "Trace the acquisition on this vehicle." Forty-eight hours later, Tess’s call came through my AirPods. "Purchased in full. A hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars out the door. The originating wire came from an account registered to a Loretta Adams." "Whitney’s mother?" "Bingo," Tess murmured, her voice dropping an octave. "The account receives recurring, massive inflows at the start of every month. And the internal memo lines are hilarious in their arrogance." "What do they say?" "'Mercer, Nov.' 'Mercer, Dec.'" A cold, vicious laugh escaped my throat. She stole my maintenance wires, laundered them through her mother’s account, and had the sheer audacity to label them with my surname—just to ensure she never forgot which lamb she was shearing. "I can review the ledger through compliance backchannels, but I can't export a certified report without a subpoena," Tess warned. "If you want actionable ammunition, you have to get it from Holt’s side." The ammunition was already resting on Bennett's nightstand. That night, I slipped into his arms on the media room sofa, accompanying him through a 1970s neo-noir film he had seen a dozen times. He fell asleep halfway through, his iPhone resting unlocked on the cushion beside my thigh. I touched the screen once, opened his sent mail, and located the internal directive issued to corporate treasury and executive payroll: Adjust monthly domestic allowance for S. Mercer to $800,000.00. Effective immediately. I snapped a high-res photo with my burner, cleared the cache, and set the phone back down. Phase two began the following evening. I summoned Martha back to the penthouse. I told her Bennett was entertaining foreign investors and wouldn't be back until after ten. Then, I texted Bennett: I missed you today. Can you come home for dinner early? Just us. At precisely seven o'clock, the heavy oak door swung open. Bennett stepped into the foyer just as Martha’s distressed voice echoed from the kitchen, where she was on the phone with her sister. "...they haven't disbursed my wages for two months, Brenda. I don't even have the three thousand for Jenny's college tuition deposit..." "...Miss Adams told me directly that Miss Mercer issued an order to cut back all household overhead..." Bennett froze in the entryway. His face darkened into a storm cloud. Martha turned, caught sight of him, and nearly dropped her phone in terror. Bennett turned his gaze toward me. "Your order?" I lowered my eyes, my voice barely above a whisper. "I must have phrased something poorly... Whitney must have misunderstood. She only wanted to help you protect your capital. Please don't blame her." The more I defended Whitney, the more venomous Bennett’s expression became. He immediately authorized an instant transfer covering Martha’s back wages, attached a fifty-thousand-dollar retention bonus, and disappeared into his study for the rest of the night. I knew what he was doing behind that closed door. He was finally pulling the household books. The next morning over espresso, Bennett studied me over the rim of his porcelain cup. "Did you know the kitchen hasn't ordered grade-A provisions in four months?" I applied my berry lipstick in the foyer mirror, not turning around. "I don't track the grocery bills." "Did you know Martha went unpaid for sixty days?" "Whitney mentioned that times were tight at the corporate level." "She told you that?" "Yes." I pressed my lips together, blotting them delicately. "She also told me that you instructed her to monitor my personal spending habits." Bennett’s knuckles whitened against his cup. "Did she ever tell you what my ledgers say you spend every month?" "She did." "How much?" I turned, flashing him a luminous, vacant smile. "She said I burn through six hundred thousand a month on clothes, jewelry, and private car services." Bennett held my gaze. "Did you spend that much?" "I don't know," I said, spreading my manicured hands. "Maybe I have early-onset amnesia." He didn't find it funny. From that day forward, Bennett’s behavior subtly shifted. He began casually asking if I recognized high-jewelry receipts from Harry Winston. He routed corporate catering invoices to my personal inbox under the guise of wanting my decorative input. He mentioned Whitney’s name in passing, testing my reactions. "She says you’ve matured immensely over the past few weeks." "Really?" "She also said you used to complain that I was stingy." I cut into my medium-rare wagyu. "You believe everything she says." His brow twitched. I immediately placed a tender cut onto his plate. "Just teasing." Meanwhile, Whitney was intoxicated by her apparent victory. Her private social accounts became an uninterrupted parade of high-end consumption: Michelin-starred tasting menus, bespoke designer luggage, and discreetly staged photographs at corporate galas standing a half-step behind Bennett. Her captions were dripping with curated humility: To be trusted is the greatest privilege. Competence will always outshine vanity. Alleviating the burdens of brilliant men is the true measure of worth. Every single time she posted, I archived the timestamp. On Sunday night, I brought up the corporate calendar over dessert. "The Tenth Anniversary Gala for Holt Enterprises is next month," I remarked casually. "You should let Whitney oversee the executive planning." Bennett set his silver fork down, his gaze piercing. "I thought you found her intrusive." "Not at all." I smiled, leaning my head against his broad shoulder. "She’s sacrificed five years of her life keeping your world turning. She deserves the public recognition." Bennett watched me for a long time. "You really mean that?" "Of course. Someone that capable deserves the title." By Monday morning, the corporate circular went out to the entire firm. Whitney Adams was officially elevated to Chief of Staff to the Chairman, granted sole discretionary sign-off on the twenty-million-dollar gala production budget. That very evening, she called my personal line. "Miss Mercer, I want to thank you for putting in a good word with Mr. Holt," she purred, her condescension barely masked by executive professionalism. "Moving forward, I will manage the domestic budget with even greater vigilance." "As you should," I replied smoothly. "Director Adams." She let out a soft, triumphant laugh. "Don't worry. I’ll make sure Bennett realizes who actually protects his interests." When I hung up, I shot a one-line text to Tess Monroe: The broader her signing authority, the more ink she leaves on the paper. At the anniversary gala, I want the spotlight entirely on her. At one in the morning, Tess texted back: Loretta Adams’s account just logged another inbound wire. Five million dollars. Transaction memo: 'Venue & Production Deposit.' I stared at the glowing blue text and smiled into the dark. Keep digging, Whitney. Don't stop now. The anniversary gala was staged in the Grand Ballroom of The Plaza. Whitney stood by the towering floral arches wearing an off-the-shoulder couture gown from this season’s Paris runway—a six-figure custom creation that had never seen a department store rack. A stream of tier-one institutional partners, investment bankers, and real estate scions stepped forward to toast her, addressing her with deferential respect: Director Adams. She held her champagne flute with regal ease, casting occasional, pitying glances across the parquet floor toward me. I was wearing a three-year-old vintage silk column dress. Two delicate pearl beads were missing near the collarbone. Charlotte Davenport glided over, her diamond bracelets clattering like dry bones. "Sienna, darling, that dress... haven't I seen it before?" "Bennett’s thirty-second birthday," I said with a warm, self-effacing grin. "I'm sentimental about old things." Across the sea of black tuxedos, Bennett’s gaze shifted from Whitney’s glittering couture gown to my bare shoulders. Then back to Whitney. Whitney noticed the shift immediately. She excused herself from a consortium of private equity executives and walked over, champagne in hand. "Mr. Holt, this gown was loaned to me directly by the atelier for brand visibility," she offered smoothly before Bennett could speak. "It goes back into the security vault first thing tomorrow." Bennett didn't acknowledge the explanation. His eyes drifted down to my feet. "Where are the Louboutins I bought you last Christmas?" "These old satin flats are comfortable," I said softly. "I thought you despised wearing the same shoes twice." "People change, Bennett." Bennett’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles beneath his temple flexed, but he held his tongue. Ten minutes before his keynote address, he took my wrist and steered me into the VIP green room behind the stage. He shut the heavy double doors, cutting off the jazz quartet outside. "Are you broke?" "Of course not." "You consigned the Birkin. You didn't pay Martha. You're eating clear water broth in a twenty-million-dollar penthouse." Bennett stepped into my personal space, his eyes blazing with fury. "Sienna, do you think I'm blind?" I bit my lower lip, letting moisture well up along the rims of my eyes until they glistened like fractured glass. "I just... I didn't want you to think our life together was nothing more than an invoice." One single sentence. Not a syllable more. Bennett’s throat moved as he swallowed hard. "Whitney told me your personal overhead exceeds six hundred thousand a month." "Then my memory must be failing me." "Bring me your actual credit card statements." "Didn't you transfer domestic oversight entirely to Whitney?" I looked up at him, my voice breaking with quiet vulnerability. "If I show you the receipts, won't people say I'm just an expensive habit trying to cause trouble?" Bennett’s expression shifted violently, a fracture running straight through his composure. He opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp knock broke the silence. Whitney opened the door, her smile radiant and authoritative. "Mr. Holt, the press pool is assembled. It's time for the keynote." Following Bennett’s address, Whitney stepped onto the elevated dais as the master of ceremonies. The stage lights washed over her, making the diamond-dusted tulle of her couture gown shimmer like liquid platinum. "I want to thank Mr. Holt for this extraordinary platform," her voice resonated through the state-of-the-art sound system. "And I want to extend a very special acknowledgment to Miss Sienna Mercer, who has shown such remarkable understanding toward our corporate restructuring by voluntarily minimizing all domestic overhead." A low ripple of knowing chuckles swept through the room. Dozens of high-society wives turned their heads, their eyes raking across my vintage gown with thinly veiled contempt. Whitney looked down at me from the podium, her eyes overflowing with the patronizing pity of a victor who believed she had already claimed the spoils. She lifted her crystal flute toward me. "I understand Miss Mercer has prepared a special surprise tribute video celebrating Holt Enterprises’ decade of excellence. Let us invite Miss Mercer to the stage." This segment had been submitted to the event itinerary by me two weeks ago. Whitney had approved it without a second glance. She assumed I had slapped together an amateurish, sentimental montage of Bennett’s press clippings—a desperate, vulgar attempt to assert my presence that would solidify my reputation as a low-rent socialite out of her depth. I smoothed the silk of my skirt, walked up the stairs, and took the presentation clicker from her manicured fingers. "Thank you, Director Adams," I said into the microphone, my smile dazzling beneath the spotlights. "You've worked so hard. I promise you... this is a surprise you will never forget." I pressed the master button. The colossal 8K LED screen behind the stage flickered to life. Slide One: A high-resolution scan of the internal directive authored by Bennett Holt: Adjust monthly domestic allowance for S. Mercer to $800,000.00. Effective immediately. Slide Two: An official internal disbursement voucher extracted from Holt Enterprises' accounting software, modified and signed off by the Chief of Staff: Approver: Whitney Adams. Disbursed Amount to S. Mercer: $5.00. The entire Grand Ballroom fell into absolute, deafening silence.