Chapter 6 - The Interrogation RoomThe interrogation room smelled of stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and the quiet despair of a dozen white-collar criminals who thought they were smarter than the system.
I sat across the heavy metal table from Detective Miller, a tired-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetually wrinkled suit that suggested he hadn't slept since Tuesday. He slid a thick stack of printed transaction logs across the laminate surface.
"You realize," Detective Miller began, tapping a pen against the paper, "that by hacking into his private server and publicizing active federal warrants before the arrest was officially executed, you technically committed three separate cyber-trespass violations."
I didn't blink. I took a slow sip of the lukewarm tap water in front of me.
"Technically," I replied, leaning forward, "I assisted an ongoing federal investigation into international wire fraud, securities manipulation, and corporate identity theft. My legal counsel—who happens to be sitting in the observation room right now—assures me that my whistleblower protections will hold up quite nicely."
Miller let out a short, dry chuckle, shaking his head. "You really did a number on him, didn't you? Half his board of directors resigned within twenty minutes of your wedding broadcast. The stock dropped forty points before the market even closed."
"He deserved worse," I said flatly.
"And the grandmother?" Miller asked, raising an eyebrow. "Eleanor Vance Sr. She’s currently in protective custody at her own request. She says she’s been trying to stop her grandson’s corporate takeover schemes for three years, but he threatened to institutionalize her if she spoke to the police."
"She saved my life," I murmured, a sudden chill washing over me as I remembered the cold, desperate grip of her hand on my wrist in the bridal suite. “If he says those four words to you, don’t believe him.”
"By the way," Miller said, leaning back in his chair and studying me closely. "We still haven't figured out what those four words actually were. Your ex-fiancé refuses to speak without immunity, and his mother lawyered up before the cuffs even clicked. What did he whisper to you right before you found the document?"
I looked down at my hands. The diamond engagement ring was gone—I had left it sitting right in the center of the altar next to the spilled communion wine.
"He looked me dead in the eye," I whispered, the memory sending a fresh shiver down my spine, "and he said..."
“You own nothing now.”
That was what the four words meant. It wasn't a declaration of love. It was a digital death sentence. He had already executed the final asset transfer thirty seconds before entering the bridal room, assuming that once the ring was on my finger, I would be legally trapped into absorbing his corporate liabilities as his wife.
May you like
Detective Miller watched my expression shift from cold realization to a sharp, burning resolve.
"Well," Miller said softly, closing the file folder. "He won't be owning anything very soon either. Federal property seizure laws are a bitch when you don't have a bride to bail you out."
