Chapter 18 - The Broken Sovereign in the Cell
The metal doors of the visitor room at the Metropolitan Correction Center clicked open with a heavy,
echoing thud.
I sat on the wooden chair behind the reinforced glass,
wearing a tailored black trench coat and leather gloves.
It had been two weeks since my victory in Paris.
Grant Ashford was led into the room by two armed federal marshals.
He looked unrecognizable.
His face was sunken,
his hollow cheeks covered in unkempt stubble,
his eyes wide,
red,
and filled with frantic,
unstable fear.
He had lost weight,
and the orange prison jumpsuit hung loosely off his broad frame.
He sat down on the stool across from me,
his hands bound tightly in steel handcuffs that rattled against the metal counter.
He grabbed the plastic phone receiver with trembling fingers.
I slowly lifted my receiver to my ear.
“Vivienne...”
Grant whispered,
his voice trembling,
cracked,
and desperate.
“Vivienne,
please...
you have to listen to me.”
“I don't have time for your begging,
Grant,”
I said coldly.
“Why did your lawyer request this meeting?”
Grant pressed his forehead against the thick glass,
tears spilling over his eyelashes.
“I have information,
Viv!”
he pleaded frantically.
“Information about Layla Al-Mansoor!”
“She has hidden offshore accounts in Liechtenstein!”
“She has secondary ledgers that prove she helped her father bribe European regulators!”
“I can give you the account numbers!”
“I can testify against her!”
“Just talk to the federal prosecutor!”
“Ask them to reduce my sentence to five years!”
“Please,
Viv,
I can’t survive in here!”
“The other inmates know who I am!”
“They mock me every day!”
I listened to him,
watching the man who had once stood proudly in our Fifth Avenue penthouse,
now reduced to begging for scraps of mercy.
“Grant,”
I said softly,
my tone dripping with quiet pity.
“Layla Al-Mansoor was arrested in Zurich forty-eight hours ago.”
Grant froze.
His eyes went completely blank.
“What?”
he breathed.
“Her Swiss accounts were seized by European authorities,”
I informed him,
pronouncing every word with deliberate clarity.
“Her hidden ledgers in Liechtenstein were turned over to the FBI three days ago by her own senior chief financial officer.”
“We already have the account numbers.”
“We already have the wire transfers.”
“We do not need your testimony,
Grant.”
“You have nothing left to trade.”
Grant’s mouth opened,
but no sound came out.
He stared at me through the glass as the final realization struck his soul:
He was completely useless.
He was a pawn that had been discarded by everyone—by me,
by Piper,
by Tariq,
and now by the justice system.
“No...”
he whimpered,
shaking his head wildly.
“No,
no,
no!
Vivienne,
you can’t leave me here!”
“I was your husband!”
“We loved each other!”
“Remember our wedding in Italy?”
“Remember Lake Como?”
“The man I married in Lake Como died the moment he allowed Piper Vale into my home,”
I replied,
my voice firm,
unwavering,
and cold as marble.
“You are just a stranger wearing an orange jumpsuit.”
“Vivienne!”
he screamed,
slamming his bound wrists against the bulletproof glass,
creating a dull,
hollow vibration.
“Vivienne,
don't walk away!
Please!”
I stood up from my chair,
buttoned my black trench coat,
and adjusted my leather gloves.
I looked at him through the glass one final time.
“Your trial begins next month,
Grant,”
I said smoothly.
“The prosecutor is asking for twenty-five years without parole.”
“I suggest you spend that time reflecting on the day you thought you were clever enough to destroy me.”
I hung up the receiver,
turned away,
May you like
and walked out of the prison block,
the heavy steel doors locking behind me forever.
