Chapter 4 - RETURNING TO ASHFORD MANOR
Thursday morning at 9:45 AM, a black SUV pulled up to the security gates of Ashford Manor.
Meredith sat in the backseat, her arm secured in a black sling, wearing a loose coat over her pregnant belly. Beside her were Harper and two off-duty private security guards hired by Eleanor.
The iron gates swung open. Lucia had given them her spare keycard the previous evening.
Driving up the long, winding driveway lined with oak trees, Meredith felt a knot of pure ice form in her stomach. Nine years of her life had been spent inside this grand, mausoleum-like estate. She had picked out the wallpaper, chosen the furniture, and landscaped the gardens, believing she was building a home with a man who cherished her. Instead, she had been building her own cage.
The SUV stopped before the grand stone steps.
"We have forty-five minutes before his hearing ends," Eleanor said from the front passenger seat. "Let’s be fast and precise."
Meredith stepped out, her boots clicking against the driveway. Escorted by the security guards, she pushed open the heavy mahogany front doors.
The foyer was suffocatingly quiet.
Meredith froze at the threshold. There, at the bottom of the grand staircase, the white marble floor was still stained with a faint, dark smudge that hadn't been fully cleaned.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. For a second, the room seemed to spin—the scent of Sloan’s floral perfume, the whisper, the sudden weight against her back, the terrifying plummet.
"Mere?" Harper placed a gentle hand on her good shoulder. "You okay?"
Meredith took a deep, shaky breath, grounded herself, and looked up the stairs. "I’m fine. Let’s go."
They moved quickly. While Harper and one guard went upstairs to the nursery to gather Meredith’s packed bags and personal baby items, Meredith, Eleanor, and the second guard walked into Preston’s private library.
The room smelled of stale bourbon and expensive cigars. Papers were strewn across the massive oak desk—Preston had clearly been panicking, trying to consolidate his assets late into the night.
Meredith walked behind the desk, pulled back an oil painting of the English countryside, and exposed the wall safe. She dialed the combination: her father’s birthdate, 04-12-58.
The lock clicked. The heavy steel door swung open.
Inside lay the blue leather binder containing the original Ashford Family Trust, her mother’s heirloom diamond necklace, and a series of black hard drives used for corporate backups.
But as Meredith reached in to pull out the trust documents, her eyes caught something else—a red velvet folder hidden at the back of the safe.
She pulled it out and opened it.
Inside were pages of private bank statements from offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, registered under a shell corporation named S&P Holdings—Sloan and Preston. Over the past three years, Preston had systematically embezzled over fourteen million dollars from Meredith’s family trust and laundered it into accounts bearing Sloan Whitmore’s name.
"Eleanor," Meredith whispered, her voice trembling with cold rage. "Look at this."
Eleanor took the documents, skimming the transaction logs. Her eyes widened. "This isn't just domestic abuse and assault, Meredith. This is corporate grand larceny, fraud, and tax evasion. This is federal."
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the library slammed open.
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"What the hell are you doing in my house?!"
Meredith whipped around. Standing in the doorway, soaked in sweat and breathing heavily, was Preston.
