Chapter 7 - The Federal Sweep
"Federal agents! Drop the weapon, right now!"
The sharp, authoritative roar bounced off the concrete walls as Agent Miller of the FBI Financial Crimes Unit leveled his service pistol directly at Julian’s chest, flanked by local security guards.
Julian’s face went deadpan. In a fraction of a second, with terrifying speed, he slipped the pistol back into his holster, raising both hands into the air with a theatrical, infuriating calm.
"There's been a terrible misunderstanding, Agent," Julian called out, smiling smoothly. "My associate here, Mr. Bennett, was just handing over voluntary disclosures regarding corporate mismanagement. We're the victims here."
"Shut your mouth and turn around against the car!" Agent Miller barked, stepping forward while two officers rushed in to snap heavy zip-ties around Julian’s wrists, shoving him hard against the hood of the sedan.
The chaos erupted all at once. Medical staff from the ER—drawn by the commotion and the emergency page from Ethan’s room—poured out of the stairwell, gasping when they saw me standing alongside my fugitive husband in a hospital gown.
"Ethan! What are you doing out of bed? You're going to tear your stitches!" a frantic nurse yelled, rushing forward with a wheelchair, but Ethan ignored her completely. His knees finally buckled under the weight of his injuries, and he slid down the side of the car, collapsing onto the damp concrete.
I stood frozen, watching the man I had loved—and never truly known—huddled against the ground, his face pale and twisted in agony.
Agent Miller walked over, flashing his credentials in my direction. "Dr. Claire Bennett? I'm Agent Miller. We've been trying to reach you for forty-eight hours. Your name is listed as the primary officer on several corporate entities tied to an ongoing embezzlement investigation."
The words felt like a physical blow to my chest. "I didn't sign those documents," I said, my voice hollow. "My husband forged my signature."
"We have forensic handwriting analysts reviewing the files as we speak," Miller replied grimly, glancing down at Ethan. "And based on the digital trail we just pulled from Julian Vance’s encrypted server upstairs, your husband was the primary architect—though Mr. Vance was clearly pulling the strings to ensure he had a scapegoat ready if the SEC caught wind of it."
Before Miller could finish his sentence, a frantic, breathless voice echoed from the elevator bank.
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"Ethan! Ethan, please!"
We all turned. Stumbling out of the elevator, sobbing hysterically with her hands pressed against her swollen stomach, was Chloe.
