Chapter 6 - The Badge and the Balance Sheet
The metallic click of the handcuffs seemed to echo louder than the hospital's heart monitor, bouncing off the pale walls of my room like a gunshot.
Vincent stumbled backward, his designer loafers tangling with the edge of the rolling tray table as Marcus Vance stepped forward to block the exit. Two uniformed Chicago police officers flanked Vincent instantly, their hands resting heavy on their utility belts.
“What is the meaning of this? This is an outrage!” Vincent shouted, his voice cracking from a high-pitched shriek into a desperate growl. He looked wildly around the room, expecting someone to intervene. “Dad? Where’s my father? Arthur wouldn't stand for this!”
“My father is currently reviewing the quarterly filings of every shell company you’ve opened in the last three years, Vincent,” I said, my voice cutting through his panic with absolute, razor-sharp clarity.
Marcus slid a thick document across the bedsheet, stopping it right beneath Vincent’s sweating nose.
“You’re looking at a federal warrant for wire fraud, corporate identity theft, and misuse of interstate commerce funds, Mr. Hale,” Marcus stated smoothly, his gray eyes devoid of any emotion. “Specifically, for forging corporate guarantees and encumbering marital assets under false pretenses with Apex Capital.”
Vincent stared down at the paper, the blood completely draining from his face until his skin took on the tone of skim milk. His mouth worked silently for a few seconds before he managed to choke out his defense.
“Claire... Claire, baby, listen to me. It was a bridge loan! It was temporary! The restaurant group needed liquidity, and—”
“And you needed to cover Vanessa Cole’s Miami hotel debt,” I finished for him, leaning back against the pillows. “You used our family assets, our home trust, and my name to bail out your mistress. Did you really think my grandfather’s legal team wouldn't trace a two-and-a-half-million-dollar hole in the primary ledger before lunch?”
One of the officers grabbed Vincent by the bicep, twisting his arm toward his lower back.
“Turn around, Mr. Hale. Hands behind your back.”
“No, wait—Claire, please! We can fix this! Think of the baby!” Vincent shrieked as they hauled him toward the door, his designer shoes skidding uselessly against the linoleum. “You can't do this to me! I’m a Hale!”
“You used to be,” I whispered as the heavy door slammed shut, cutting off his frantic screams.
May you like
The room fell dead silent again. The monitor beeped rhythmically. I closed my eyes, taking a long, steady breath, knowing the war was only just beginning.
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