Chapter 8 - Behind BarsDown in the local county detention center, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long, dreary shadows across the concrete walls.
Margaret Thornton sat on a thin metal cot, wearing a standard-issue orange jumpsuit. Her diamond rings were gone, her designer hair was matted, and her face was stained with mascara. For the first time in her life, she wasn't surrounded by obsequious sycophants or luxury servants.
The heavy steel door clanged open. A prison guard stepped aside, and I walked into the visitation booth, sitting down on the opposite side of the thick glass partition.
Margaret sprang up, rushing to the glass and slamming her palms against it.
"Elena! You monster! Get me out of here!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria. "Do you know who I am?! I can have you killed! I can—"
"You can do nothing, Margaret," I interrupted calmly, picking up the telephone receiver. I pressed it against my ear, though I didn't even need it to hear her pathetic screams.
"You ruined my son's life!" she sobbed, sliding down the glass until she hit the cold floor. "He was supposed to be a king! We had everything!"
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"You had wealth built on the backs of exploited workers, stolen charity funds, and cruelty toward children," I said, my voice cutting through the glass with absolute authority. "And now, every single cent of your illicit fortune has been seized by the government and redirected to fund children's hospitals and education trusts—including a brand-new wing named after the little girl you and your son tried to frame."
Margaret stared up at me, her eyes hollow, the final remnants of her arrogant spirit completely crushed.
