Chapter 6 - The Empty Stroller
The heavy crystal chandeliers overhead seemed to hum with a sudden, suffocating tension. Every head in the grand ballroom snapped toward the entrance, cameras flashing in a rapid, blinding strobe effect that turned the opulent charity gala into a crime scene. Piper’s hysterical shrieks bounced off the vaulted marble walls, cutting through the silence like broken glass.
"Where is my baby?!" Piper screamed again, stumbling down the central aisle. Her hospital gown peeked out from beneath an oversized woolen coat, her hair matted against her damp forehead, pushing an empty stroller that clicked rhythmically against the floorboards. "Grant! Tell them what you did with my baby!"
Grant froze midway down the aisle, federal agents gripping his cuffed arms. His face went from pale to a sickly, translucent gray. "Piper... shut up. Get her out of here," he choked out, his voice cracking as he looked desperately toward the board members in the front row.
Julian Vance, the board chairman, surged out of his seat, his face flushing crimson with blind fury. "Security! Get this lunatic out of here immediately! This is a private corporate event!"
"Don't you dare touch me!" Piper whipped around, spitting blood and venom at the chairman. "You knew all about it, Julian! You and Grant transferred the funds through the Panama shell companies to pay for my silence! And now the hospital claims the baby didn't survive delivery, but they won't show me the records! They stole my child!"
A collective gasp swept through the two hundred guests. Reporters trampled over one another, microphones thrust forward, capturing every single explosive syllable.
From my place at the mahogany podium, I didn't flinch. I watched the chaos unfold with a chilling, clinical detachment. The missing baby. The forged adoption papers hidden in the corporate accounts. The frantic rush to bail Grant out not to save a marriage, but to silence an insurance liability.
"Mr. Ashford," one of the federal agents flanking Grant said coldly, tightening his grip on the handcuffs. "It looks like your charges just escalated from wire fraud and bigamy to obstruction and trafficking investigation. Turn around."
"Vivienne!" Grant thrashed against the agents, his eyes locked on me with raw, animalistic terror. "Vivienne, please! You have to listen to me! It wasn't what you think—the baby—"
"Quiet, Mr. Ashford," the agent barked, shoving him toward the exit.
Piper collapsed against the empty stroller, sobbing hysterically as hospital security guards finally swarmed her, draping a blanket over her shoulders and hauling her away toward the service elevators.
The ballroom was left in absolute, deafening silence. Two hundred of the city’s most influential people stared at me, waiting to see what the betrayed wife would do.
I adjusted the microphone, letting the absolute stillness linger for three agonizing seconds. Then, I smiled.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, my voice cutting through the room like a razor. "Dinner is canceled. But stay tuned for the liquidation auction."
I turned off the mic, stepped away from the podium, and walked backstage, leaving the Ashford dynasty burning to the ground behind me. But as I reached the private exit, my phone buzzed in my clutch. It was an unknown international number.
I swiped to answer.
May you like
"Mrs. Ashford," a low, gravelly voice whispered on the other end. "If you want to know who really took Piper's baby—and why your husband was just a pawn in a much bigger game—meet me at Pier 42 in twenty minutes. Come alone."
---
