Chapter 5 - Stripped to the BoneGraham staggered backward, colliding hard against the banister. His face turned the color of ash.
“CEO...?” Graham whispered, shaking his head in frantic denial. “No. No, that’s impossible. You’re a freelance fashion designer. You... you showed me your portfolio books when we met! You lived in a modest apartment!”
“A modest apartment I bought with cash while testing your character during our initial courtship,” I said smoothly, stopping five feet away from him. “I wanted to see if a man would love me for my mind, my heart, and my soul, or if he was just an ambitious social climber looking for a trophy wife to prop up his fragile ego. Unfortunately, Graham, you failed every single metric.”
Vivian clutched her chest, her diamond necklace flashing under the chandelier. “This is a lie! A sick conspiracy! You tricked my son! You’re a fraud!”
“A fraud?” Marcus Vance stepped into the foyer behind me, holding a thick leather binder filled with certified legal documents. He flipped it open with clinical precision. “Let’s talk about fraud, Mrs. Harrington. According to our forensic audit completed three hours ago, Graham systematically embezzled four hundred and fifty thousand dollars from Harrington Luxe’s discretionary R&D funds over the past eighteen months to fund his private stock trading accounts and luxury vehicle leases.”
Graham’s eyes bulged out of his head. “That—that was corporate restructuring capital! Everyone does it!”
“Not legally, and certainly not under a parent corporation that holds an absolute zero-tolerance policy for white-collar crime,” Marcus replied calmly. “The evidence has already been forwarded to the federal prosecutor’s office. An arrest warrant for wire fraud and grand larceny has been approved.”
The sound of heavy boots echoed from the driveway outside. Two federal marshals in tactical vests stepped through the open doorway, their eyes scanning the room before locking onto Graham.
“Graham Harrington?” one of the marshals asked, stepping forward.
Graham shrank back, shaking his head frantically. “No—wait! There’s been a mistake! My mother knows people! My lawyers will—!”
“You have the right to remain silent,” the marshal said crisply, pulling out a pair of steel handcuffs.
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Click. Click.
Vivian let out a piercing shriek as her precious son—her golden boy, her pride and joy—was forced face-first against the very mahogany banister he had used to shove me out into the snow twelve hours earlier.
