I was eight months pregnant with the baby doctors said I'd never have when my husband walked into my baby shower with his twenty-two-year-old mistress on his arm

Three miles away, inside the sterile, fluorescent-lit holding facility of the federal detention center, the reality of their new existence was finally sinking in for the Ashford family.

Daniel paced the length of his ten-by-twelve concrete cell, his designer suit replaced by a coarse, bright orange jumpsuit that hung awkwardly on his frame. His hair was disheveled, dark circles bruised beneath his eyes, and his hands trembled as he gripped the iron bars.

It doesn't make sense! Daniel shouted down the empty corridor, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. My father is Victor Ashford! We own half the city! Call my lawyers! Tell them I want bail!

Shut your mouth down there! a guard yelled from the guard station at the end of the hall, banging a heavy baton against the metal bars. Quiet down or you're spending the night in solitary!

Daniel flinched, stepping back as panic clawed at his throat. He looked across the hallway into the adjacent cell, where his father sat motionless on a narrow steel cot, staring blankly at the floor.

Dad, Daniel whined, his voice cracking with desperation. Say something! Fix this! Call Governor Sterling! Call the board! Tell them to get us out of here!

Victor didn't look up. His voice, when it finally came out, was cracked, hollow, and devoid of the iron authority that had once commanded boardrooms.

The board is gone, Daniel, Victor rasped, his eyes fixed on a stain on the concrete floor. Ashford Global was delisted from the stock exchange at nine o'clock this morning. Every asset, every subsidiary, every account—seized. We're broke. Worse than broke. We're facing federal prison sentences with mandatory minimums of thirty years.

Thirty years? Daniel grabbed the bars, shaking them frantically. No! No way! We can make a deal! We can blame Mara! We can say she forged everything!

A heavy set of footsteps echoed down the corridor, accompanied by the jingle of keys. A federal prosecutor, accompanied by two armed guards, stopped in front of Victor's cell.

Blame who, Mr. Ashford? the prosecutor asked with a cold, sardonic smile.

Victor slowly raised his head, glaring through the bars at the prosecutor. My wife—my former daughter-in-law. She hacked our servers. She fabricated those ledgers. It was a setup!

The prosecutor laughed openly, pulling a certified document from his briefcase. Fabricated? Mr. Ashford, the forensic accounting team from the SEC spent the last twenty-four hours verifying every single transaction in that file. Every offshore wire transfer, every tax loophole, every falsified asset valuation signed with your signature, Victor. Not a single byte of data was hacked or fabricated. It was downloaded directly from your personal administrative terminal using your own biometric login credentials—credentials that Mrs. Ashford legally accessed as your designated corporate proxy, a role you appointed her to three years ago to handle your personal audits.

Victor's jaw dropped. He stared at the prosecutor in absolute horror as the realization hit him with crushing force.

She didn't hack us, Victor whispered, his voice trembling. She waited. She watched us hand her the keys to our destruction, and we never even saw it coming.

And as for your son's mistress, Celeste, the prosecutor added smoothly, turning to look at Daniel, she was picked up by federal agents two hours ago at a luxury boutique trying to charge a half-million-dollar diamond necklace to one of your frozen corporate cards. She’s currently cooperating with the Feds and blaming everything on you, Daniel. She says you promised her half the estate once you divorced Mara.

Daniel staggered backward, his knees giving out beneath him as he slid down the concrete wall, burying his face in his hands.