Chapter 3 - THE INTERROGATION ROOM DOWNSTAIRS
The temporary holding cell set up in the estate's security wing was nothing like the high-tech elegance of the ballroom upstairs. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly green hue over Adrian Sterling’s designer tuxedo. His hair, usually meticulously styled, was ruffled. His tie was loosened, and his hands were cuffed to a stainless-steel table bolted to the floor.
When the heavy steel door creaked open, he looked up, his eyes bloodshot and desperate.
“Evelyn,” he choked out, pushing his chair back. The metal legs screeched against the concrete floor. “Thank God. You have to tell them this is a misunderstanding. The federal agents—they don't understand how corporate restructuring works. They’re treating this like a criminal conspiracy!”
I didn't answer right away. I walked slowly into the room, my heels clicking against the floor, and sat down in the chair opposite him. Charles and two federal investigators stood just outside the glass partition, watching every micro-expression.
“It’s not a corporate restructuring, Adrian,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “It’s a criminal conspiracy. You poisoned me for six months. You stole my company. And, most importantly, you stole my daughter.”
Adrian’s face drained of what little color remained. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly.
“That... that’s insane,” he stammered, though the conviction in his voice had completely evaporated. “Dr. Vance handled the hospital records. The child didn't survive delivery, Evelyn! You know that! You were half-dead on the operating table!”
“Dr. Vance is currently singing like a canary in the adjoining room,” I replied smoothly. “He admitted to falsifying the death certificate in exchange for a fifty-thousand-dollar quarterly consulting fee funneled through Bianca’s brother. He also admitted that you were the one who carried the healthy infant out of the delivery room while I was sedated.”
Adrian slammed his cuffed hands onto the table. “He’s lying! He’s trying to save his own skin!”
“Everyone is lying, Adrian, except for the physical evidence,” a new voice said from the doorway.
Maya stepped into the holding room. She didn't look at Adrian with anger; she looked at him with the cold, analytical detachment of a stranger examining an insect under a microscope.
Adrian froze. His eyes darted from my face to hers, taking in the unmistakable resemblance.
“You...” he whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly hiss. “You were supposed to stay in Brooklyn. You were supposed to be an exhibition artist in Soho, living off the trust stipend like a good little girl.”
“I was never a good little girl, Adrian,” Maya said, leaning against the cold metal doorframe. “I was just a prisoner who didn't know the combination to her own cell. And by the way, Bianca is currently telling the federal prosecutor every single detail about how you threatened to throw her under the bus if the gala didn't go according to plan.”
Adrian’s shoulders slumped. The illusion of the invincible corporate titan—the man who graced the covers of Forbes and The Wall Street Journal—shattered completely. He looked old, tired, and remarkably small.
“She’s a parasite,” Adrian spat venomously, referring to Bianca. “She pushed for this. She wanted the status, the jewelry, the public adoration. I only did what I had to do to keep Sterling Global from collapsing under your outdated management style, Evelyn. You were frozen in the past. I modernized it.”
“By selling off my grandmother’s properties? By forging medical documents? By kidnapping our child?” I asked, leaning forward so my face was inches from his. “You didn't modernize the company, Adrian. You built a house of cards on a foundation that didn't belong to you. And now, the wind is blowing.”
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“You can’t do this to me,” he whispered, a pathetic tremor entering his voice. “We were married for twenty-three years. We built a life—”
“No,” I corrected him softly. “You rented a life using my name as the collateral. And the lease is officially terminated.”
