Chapter 4 - The Bigamy Bombshell
The flatline alarm drowned out the sound of my own breathing. Nurses pushed past us, slamming paddles against Piper’s chest while the doctor shouted orders for epinephrine. But I couldn't look at the bed. My eyes remained glued to the single piece of paper lying inches from my Louboutin heels.
Certificate of Marriage.
Groom: Grant Ashford.
Bride: Piper Vale.
Date: July 14, 2024.
Fourteen months ago. Which meant Grant and Piper had been legally married for over a year while we were still sharing a bed, hosting charity galas together, and renewing our vows in front of five hundred guests in the Hamptons.
Grant saw where my eyes were fixed. All the color drained from his face, leaving him looking ghastly under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital ward.
"Vivienne... let me explain," he whispered, his hands trembling as he reached out to grab my arm.
I didn't flinch. I didn't scream. I simply raised my right hand and slapped him across the face with a force that echoed over the din of the medical emergency.
"Don't touch me," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the room like a razor blade.
The police officers standing outside the doorway stepped inside, their hands resting on their utility belts. "Mr. Ashford, we need you to step out into the hallway. We have questions regarding the financial audit and potential insurance fraud."
"No, wait, my wife—" Grant stammered, casting a desperate glance between the police officers and me.
"Your first wife or your second wife, Grant?" I asked coldly, kicking the marriage certificate toward his shoes. "Because as far as the state of New York is concerned, bigamy is a class E felony. Which means while Piper is fighting for her life in there, you’re about to spend tonight in a holding cell."
"Mr. Ashford, let's go," one of the officers said firmly, grabbing Grant by the elbow.
Grant didn't resist. He looked utterly hollowed out, a broken man destroyed not by external enemies, but by his own staggering arrogance. As the officers escorted him down the corridor, he cast one last pathetic, pleading look over his shoulder. I didn't give him an inch of sympathy. I turned my back on him and walked out of the suite.
In the hallway, Marcus Vance was pacing frantically, holding his phone to his ear. When he saw me emerge from Suite 412 alone, he rushed over.
"Vivienne! I heard code blue alarms—is Piper okay? Did the police take Grant?"
"Piper is coding, and Grant is heading to the precinct," I said smoothly, sliding the marriage certificate into my portfolio. "And you, Marcus, need to start packing up your office."
Marcus stopped dead in his tracks. "What are you talking about?"
"You knew about the offshore accounts. You knew about the subsidiary funding," I said, stepping close enough to see the panic in his eyes. "And if you think I’m going to let you walk away with your partnership stake after helping him conceal a bigamous marriage and corporate embezzlement, you severely underestimate who controls the Ashford family trust."
"Vivienne, wait, we can make a deal—" Marcus began, his voice cracking.
"Talk to my new lawyers," I said, cutting him off.
I walked toward the elevators, pressing the down button with a steady finger. My mind was sharp, cold, and entirely focused. The gala was tonight. Two hundred guests, major donors, media crews, and the board of directors were expecting a united front from the Ashford dynasty.
Instead, they were going to get a reckoning.
When the elevator doors opened, I stepped inside and pulled out my phone. I dialed the head of public relations for Ashford Hotels.
May you like
"Sarah," I said the moment she picked up. "Cancel the gala theme. Prepare a press release for six o'clock. We are announcing an emergency executive restructuring... and a divorce."
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