Chapter 13 - The Descent of Vanessa Kensington
Three hundred miles away in the maximum-security wing of Alderson Federal Prison, Vanessa Kensington sat in the communal rec room, staring at the scarred laminate table.
Her designer wardrobe had long since been incinerated. Her skin was sallow, her blonde hair cut into a harsh, uneven bob to comply with facility regulations. The other inmates didn't care about interior design, luxury real estate projects, or high-society galas in Philadelphia. Here, currency was measured in commissary stamps, rumors, and brutal survival.
The heavy steel door at the end of the corridor buzzed open.
A prison guard walked down the row, stopping in front of Vanessa’s table. "Kensington. Visitor."
Vanessa didn't look up immediately. Her visitors were nonexistent. Richard hadn't written in over a year, and her parents had quietly moved to Florida, changing their phone numbers and pretending their daughter had simply vanished from the earth.
"I don't have visitors," she muttered to the table.
"You do now," the guard said flatly, unlocking the side partition door. "Move."
Dragging her heavy orange boots across the linoleum, Vanessa was led into the small, glass-partitioned visitation booth. On the other side of the scuffed plexiglass sat a woman in a sharp, charcoal-gray pantsuit, holding a black leather portfolio.
It wasn't Harrison. It wasn't a federal marshal.
It was a young, sharp-eyed attorney from Harrison’s Manhattan firm named Victoria Vance.
Vanessa picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver with shaking hands. She pressed it against her ear, her voice trembling. "Who are you? What do you want?"
Victoria didn't smile. She opened her leather portfolio with slow, deliberate precision, laying a single document against the glass.
"Ms. Kensington, I am here on behalf of the Cole Foundation," Victoria’s voice came through the crackling speaker box, cold and clinical. "We are filing an additional civil lien against every future asset, royalty, book deal, or interview proposal associated with your name."
"A lien?" Vanessa choked out, pressing her face closer to the glass. "I have nothing! I am in a federal prison! What could I possibly have left to take?"
"You still own fifty percent equity in your defunct interior design LLC," Victoria said evenly. "And yesterday, a dormant patent for a modular shelving unit you designed during your time at Harrington Commercial was acquired by a major manufacturer. The first royalty check arrived this morning."
Vanessa’s breath caught. "How much?"
"Eighty-four thousand dollars," Victoria replied, her eyes never leaving Vanessa's face. "And under the terms of the civil judgment, every single penny is legally designated as restitution for Khloe Cole."
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"No," Vanessa whispered, sliding down against the metal chair until her forehead pressed against the glass partition. "Please... just let me have something. Just let me breathe."
"You pushed a pregnant woman down thirty marble steps, Ms. Kensington," Victoria said softly, closing her portfolio with a sharp snap. "Harrison Cole never forgets an account balance. And he always collects."
