Chapter 6 - The Depths of Betrayal and the Cayman Raid
The morning sun broke over Manhattan,
casting long,
golden rays across the hardwood floors of Penthouse A.
For the first time in seven years,
the expansive suite felt quiet,
clean,
and entirely mine.
The lingering scent of Grant’s expensive cologne was gone,
replaced by the crisp,
sharp aroma of fresh espresso brewing in the kitchen.
I stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows,
watching the city come alive below me,
holding a white porcelain cup in my hands.
My phone chimed on the marble counter behind me.
It was not a text from a panicked relative,
nor was it a call from a news reporter.
It was an encrypted alert from Marcus Reynolds,
Carter Vance’s lead forensic investigator.
I picked up the device and answered.
“Speak to me,
Marcus,”
I said quietly.
“Mrs. Ashford,”
Marcus began,
his voice crisp with professional satisfaction,
“federal marshals executed a warrant at four o’clock this morning at the Miami headquarters of Vance Holdings.”
I took a slow sip of coffee.
“Did they find Victor Vale?”
“They caught him at Opa-locka Executive Airport,”
Marcus replied,
the typing of keys audible in the background.
“He was carrying two duffel bags containing three million dollars in untraceable bearer bonds,
along with four encrypted thumb drives.”
“He was attempting to board a private charter flight to Nassau.”
A cold,
satisfying warmth spread through my chest.
“And the Cayman accounts?”
I asked.
“Frozen,”
Marcus said definitively.
“Every single dollar of the fourteen million Grant siphoned from the Ashford Heritage Trust has been intercepted.”
“Bank Pictet in Zurich and the Cayman Monetary Authority complied immediately with the emergency federal order.”
“The paper trail is complete,
Vivienne.”
“There is no way out for him.”
Before I could answer,
the call waiting tone beeped in my ear.
I looked at the caller ID on the screen.
It displayed the main line of Saint Aurelia Women’s Pavilion.
“Hold on,
Marcus,”
I said,
switching lines.
“This is Vivienne Ashford.”
A trembling,
hysterical voice came through the speaker.
It was not Kendall from the front desk.
It was Piper.
“Vivienne!”
she sobbed,
her voice ragged,
choked with tears,
and completely stripped of the arrogant arrogance she had displayed just twenty-four hours earlier.
“Please,
Vivienne!
You have to help me!”
I remained standing by the window,
unmoved by her tears.
“I am under no legal or moral obligation to speak with you,
Piper.”
“They moved me!”
she shrieked,
her voice echoing as if she were in a small,
bare room.
“They kicked me out of Suite 402!”
“They put me in a shared ward on the ground floor!”
“The private nurses left,
and the hospital administration just handed me an itemized invoice for eighty-four thousand dollars!”
“My credit cards were declined at the front desk!”
I listened in silence as she gasped for air.
“Where is Grant?”
she cried out,
her voice rising in pure panic.
“I’ve been calling his cell all night!”
“He missed the delivery!”
“The baby was born three hours ago,
Vivienne!”
“It’s a girl!”
“And Grant isn’t here!”
“Why isn’t he answering his phone?”
I took another sip of my espresso,
letting the silence linger just long enough to heighten her terror.
“Grant is currently residing in a holding cell at the Metropolitan Correction Center,”
I said smoothly,
my voice completely devoid of warmth.
“He was arrested last night at the Ashford Foundation Gala.”
“In front of two hundred guests,
the board of directors,
and twelve television news crews.”
A sharp,
gasping breath came from the other end of the line.
“Arrested?”
she whispered,
horrified.
“For what?”
“For grand larceny,
wire fraud,
and corporate embezzlement,”
I answered clearly,
pronouncing every syllable with surgical precision.
“And as for your brother,
Victor...”
“he was arrested four hours ago in Miami by federal agents while trying to flee the country.”
A blood-curdling scream echoed through the phone as Piper realized the full magnitude of her collapse.
Her dream of stepping into my shoes,
of living in my penthouse,
and of spending my father’s fortune had disintegrated into handcuffs,
bankruptcies,
and criminal indictments.
“No...”
she whimpered,
breaking down into heavy,
uncontrollable sobbing.
“No,
no,
no!
Grant told me he owned the company!”
“He told me you were just a silent partner who didn’t care about business!”
“He promised me everything!”
“Grant is a liar,
Piper,”
I said coldly.
“He lied to me for seven years.”
“Did you truly believe he would be honest with a twenty-six-year-old mistress?”
“What am I supposed to do with this baby?”
she cried out,
desperate,
clinging to any thread of pity.
“She’s Grant’s daughter!”
“She has Ashford blood!”
“She has nothing,”
I corrected her instantly.
“Grant has no assets.”
“His accounts are frozen.”
“His executive salary has been terminated.”
“His personal property is being attached to civil lawsuits filed by my legal team.”
“If you want financial support for that child,
you will have to wait until Grant finishes serving a fifteen-year federal prison sentence,
assuming he ever earns a legal wage again.”
“You ruined my life!”
she screamed,
her panic turning into wild,
impotent rage.
“You ruined everything!”
“You ruined your own life the moment you walked into my husband’s office and decided my family’s empire was yours for the taking,”
I said softly.
“Do not call this number again.”
I hung up the phone without waiting for a response,
blocking the hospital’s number permanently.
I turned back to Marcus on the second line.
“Marcus?”
“I’m here,
Vivienne,”
he answered.
May you like
“Assemble the board of directors for an emergency meeting at ten o’clock.”
“It’s time to clean house at Ashford-Vane Global.”
