Chapter 4 - THE TRAP WITHIN THE TRAP"You see, Ethan," I said, holding the phone out so he could see the screen. "Your mother isn't stealing our assets. She's downloading a trap."
On the live camera feed inside my Manhattan penthouse, Victoria was plugging a high-speed flash drive into the master server console. Victor Vance was typing rapidly on a portable terminal, his face illuminated by the blue light of the screen.
"That server," I explained to Ethan, whose face was rapidly draining of color again, "isn't connected to Apex's live reserves. It's a honeypot network designed specifically to trace unauthorized access. The moment Victor plugged in that drive, it didn't download our funds. It uploaded a self-executing virus that is currently wiping every offshore account associated with Victor Vance, your father, and your family's shell companies."
Ethan’s mouth fell open. "No... no, that's impossible! Victor said he had the master bypass!"
"Victor is a thief who got fired three years ago because he wasn't smart enough to hide his tracks," I said mercilessly. "And your mother just gave us full digital authorization to seize every last dollar your family managed to hide in Switzerland."
On the phone screen, the lights in my penthouse suddenly turned red.
Strobe lights began flashing, and heavy steel security shutters slammed down over every window and door, locking Victoria Whitmore and Victor Vance inside the apartment.
Through the security audio feed, we could hear Victoria screaming as the sirens roared.
"Attention occupants," an automated security voice echoed through the apartment speaker. "You are locked in a high-security containment zone. NYPD Tactical Units have been dispatched."
Ethan fell to his knees in the garage, the strength completely leaving his legs. "No... please... Em... Emily, please..."
"It's over, Ethan," I said, turning my back on him. "Guards, hand him over to the police outside. Add attempt at industrial sabotage and conspiracy to commit burglary to his charges."
"Emily! Emily, wait!" Ethan screamed, weeping hysterically as the security guards hauled him up by his arms and dragged him toward the elevator. "I loved you! I really loved you!"
"You didn't love me, Ethan," I said without looking back. "You loved the idea of having power over someone you thought was weak. Now you're about to learn what real power looks like."
Twenty minutes later, I arrived at my Upper East Side building. The street was blocked off by four NYPD squad cars, their red and blue lights painting the brick facades in violent flashes.
I walked past the yellow police tape, surrounded by my personal security detail. Neighbors and paparazzi had gathered, taking photos as officers escorted a handcuffed Victoria Whitmore out of the front entrance.
Her immaculately styled hair was disheveled, her expensive coat was torn at the sleeve, and she was sobbing uncontrollably. Behind her came Victor Vance, looking ruined and defeated.
Victoria saw me standing near the steps.
She stopped, her body trembling with rage and humiliation. "You monster!" she shrieked, her voice echoing down the quiet Manhattan street. "You tricked us! You ruined my husband, you put my son in jail, and now you do this to me?!"
I walked slowly down the steps until I was standing right in front of her.
The press pushed forward, camera flashes exploding around us like lightning.
"Victoria," I said, my voice quiet, clear, and perfectly audible for every microphone present. "Eight months ago, you threw a drink in my face on your yacht. You told me I was used to mopping floors. You told me I belonged at the bottom."
I leaned in closer so only she could hear my next words.
"Tomorrow morning, the bankruptcy court will auction off your clothes, your jewelry, and your homes to pay off your husband's debts. You wanted to know what it feels like to mop floors? You're about to find out."
Victoria stared at me, her eyes wide with total, unadulterated defeat. She had no retorts left. No snide remarks. No wealth to shield her.
The officers guided her into the back of the police cruiser and slammed the door.
I turned away from the flashbulbs, pulled my coat tightly around myself, and walked up the steps into my building.
The Whitmores were gone. Their empire was shattered. Their pride was reduced to mugshots and tabloid headlines.
May you like
Or so I thought.
Because three days later, as the liquidation of Whitmore Enterprises reached its final phase, a mysterious investor stepped out of the shadows to place a bid on the bankrupt assets—a bid so large, and from a source so dangerous, that it threatened to tear everything I built apart.
