Chapter 4 - The Hospital Room Sanctuary
The sterile white walls of the VIP maternity ward felt like heaven compared to the suffocating, gilded cage of the Calloway mansion.
For the past forty-eight hours, I had been resting under strict medical observation. My son—whom I still affectionately called Hunter in my heart—was stubborn, kicking against the monitor straps as if eager to join a world where his mother finally held all the cards.
The television mounted on the wall played a continuous loop of financial news.
“...breaking updates on the catastrophic collapse of Calloway Global. Federal authorities have seized assets totaling over four billion dollars following a massive insider trading and embezzlement probe triggered by an internal whistleblower…”
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” I said, adjusting my hospital gown and sitting up a little higher against the pillows.
The door clicked open, and my attorney, Arthur Vance—no relation to the FBI agent, though they shared the same bulldog tenacity—stepped inside, carrying a thick leather briefcase. His graying hair was slicked back, and a triumphant smile played on his lips.
“Good afternoon, Vanessa. How are you feeling?” Arthur asked, taking a seat beside the bed.
“Stronger by the hour, Arthur. What’s the status of the assets?” I asked, skipping the pleasantries.
Arthur placed the briefcase on my lap and popped the latches. Inside were certified documents, bank statements, and corporate transfer deeds.
“It’s a complete rout,” Arthur said, his eyes gleaming with professional admiration. “Because of the ironclad prenuptial agreement Ryan forced you to sign—which we quietly amended with his own forged digital signature nine months ago, thanks to his sloppy IT security—and the federal RICO seizure orders, you retain absolute ownership of all non-tainted personal holdings, including the primary residential deeds, the offshore trust funds Ryan stupidly registered in your maiden name to hide from tax auditors, and fifty-one percent voting shares of Calloway subsidiary holdings.”
I raised an eyebrow. “In plain English, Arthur?”
“In plain English, Vanessa? You own them. You own the house, you own the corporate real estate, and most importantly, you own the debt they leveraged against their own company.” Arthur leaned forward. “Charles and Ryan are being held without bail at the federal detention center. Their defense attorneys tried to file an emergency motion to access corporate funds for their legal fees, and the judge denied it instantly because every single account has been frozen under your direct injunction.”
A slow smile spread across my face. “And Savannah?”
Arthur chuckled darkly. “The gold-digger realized Ryan was completely broke and facing thirty years in federal prison. She tried to flee to the airport yesterday morning with two thousand dollars she stole from Ryan’s glove compartment. The FBI picked her up for aiding and abetting a fugitive of financial crimes. She’s currently sitting in a holding cell two doors down from her beloved.”
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Poetic justice. Absolute, unfiltered poetic justice.
“Keep the pressure on, Arthur,” I instructed, resting a protective hand over my rounded belly. “I don't want them to have a single cent for commissary, let alone a high-priced defense attorney. Let them experience what it’s like to have nothing.”
