flash
"I am," Richard said. The two words sounded small in the high-ceilinged bedroom, but they carried a weight that made the silence between father and son ring like struck glass. / Chapter 2 / 8

Chapter 2 - The Trap at the Gala

The morning sun broke over the snow-covered skyline of Chicago like a pale, merciless eye.

Richard didn't sleep. By 6:00 AM, he had transferred twenty million dollars out of the joint liquid account he shared with Cassandra, freezing every credit card tied to his primary line. By 7:00 AM, he was in the kitchen, awkwardly attempting to cook scrambled eggs for Ethan.

When Ethan walked downstairs, he didn't head for the dining table. He hovered at the edge of the doorway, his small hands tucked into the pockets of his corduroy pants, checking the corners of the room as if expecting Cassandra to jump out from behind the pantry.

"She’s gone, son," Richard said softly, setting a plate of clumsy, slightly overcooked eggs and toast on the island. "I changed the security codes on the gates. The guards at the front entrance have her photo. If she sets foot within a mile of this house, they arrest her."

Ethan walked over slowly, sat on the barstool, and picked up a fork. He looked at the eggs, then at Richard. "Are you going to work today?"

"No," Richard said firmly. "I canceled all my meetings."

Ethan paused, a piece of egg halfway to his mouth. "Can you do that? What about the... the fifty-million-dollar deal?"

Richard felt a sickening spike of guilt. She really drilled that into him.

"Ethan," Richard leaned over the counter, looking directly into his son's blue eyes—eyes that were so hauntingly identical to Clara’s. "There is no deal in this world, no amount of money, no company, and no person more important than you. Do you hear me? If I have to burn my whole company to the ground to make sure you’re safe, I’ll light the match myself."

Ethan swallowed hard, a tiny, tentative smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The eggs are good, Dad. A little salty, but good."

"We’ll practice," Richard smiled back, though inside, his soul was on fire.

By noon, the phone calls started.

Cassandra called his private mobile fourteen times. When he didn't answer, she called his secretary, Sarah. Finally, at 2:00 PM, a text message arrived from Cassandra’s secondary number:

Richard, you are acting insane. You locked my cards! I’m at the Drake Hotel and I couldn't even pay for my lunch! If you don't call me back in an hour, I am calling my lawyer. I have rights as your common-law partner of four years. I will take half of Blackwood Capital, and I will make sure the press knows you’re an unstable, abusive father who throws his wife out in the snow.

Richard read the message twice. A dark, dangerous calm settled over him.

He didn't text back. Instead, he called his personal private investigator and legal team—not the corporate lawyers who handled his firm's mergers, but Vance Vance & Associates, the premier criminal defense firm in Illinois.

"Marcus," Richard said into the phone as he watched Ethan color a drawing at the kitchen table. "I need two things. First, I need a team of covert bodyguards outside my house twenty-four seven. Second, I need you to pull the police files on Clara’s crash from four years ago. Specifically, the mechanical inspection report of the braking system."

On the other end of the line, Marcus Vance paused. "Richard... that case was closed four years ago. It was ruled weather-related."

"It was murder," Richard said, his voice as flat and cold as dry ice. "And I have the audio recording of the woman who set it up."

"If you have that, we go to the State’s Attorney immediately—"

"No," Richard interrupted. "If I go to the police now, her high-priced lawyers will claim the audio was illegally obtained via unauthorized surveillance, or that it’s an AI generation. I need the physical proof. I need the man on the other end of that phone call."

"What’s your plan?" Marcus asked.

"Tonight is the Annual St. Jude Children’s Charity Gala at the Palmer House," Richard replied, his eyes narrowing. "Cassandra has spent six months planning her grand entrance as the co-chair. She thinks my social standing is her shield. She thinks I won't ruin my reputation in public."

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Richard looked at the drawing Ethan had just finished. It was a picture of a giant house with a tiny stick figure sitting outside under a tree, holding a tiny red apple.

"I’m going to give her the audience she wants," Richard whispered. "And then I’m going to strip her naked in front of every power player in this city."

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