Chapter 8 - The Price of Treason
Four hundred miles away in a sterile, fluorescent-lit federal holding facility outside San Diego, Adrian Mercer sat on the edge of a bolted steel cot, staring blankly at a cracked concrete wall.
His custom Brioni suits had been replaced by a coarse orange jumpsuit that was two sizes too large. His hair, usually meticulously styled with imported pomade, was unwashed and graying at the temples. The man who had once commanded boardrooms, traded multi-million-dollar real estate deals, and dismissed his wife as a quiet, insignificant accessory was gone.
In his place was a broken, desperate inmate facing twenty federal indictments and total financial ruin.
The heavy steel door of his holding cell clanked open. A guard looked in with a bored expression. "Mercer. Visitor. Booth three."
Adrian didn't move for a moment. Who could possibly want to visit him? His board members had cut all ties within hours of his arrest. His high-priced defense attorneys had withdrawn after the asset freeze left his retainers bouncing. Even Sloane, facing her own legal nightmare, had refused his calls.
Dragging his feet in heavy rubber sandals, Adrian shuffled down the bleak corridor and entered the partitioned visiting booth.
He sat down on the bolted metal stool and picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver. On the other side of the scratched plexiglass partition sat a man in an expensive gray tweed suit, holding a leather briefcase.
It wasn't a lawyer. It was Marcus Vance.
Adrian pressed the receiver to his ear, his voice cracking with desperate hope. "Marcus! Thank God. Are the appeals going through? Can we argue procedural error? The judge—the judge was biased, you know he was—"
Marcus stared at him through the glass, his expression entirely devoid of pity. He didn't pick up his phone immediately; he just watched Adrian sweat for a long, agonizing moment before finally lifting his own receiver.
"There are no appeals, Adrian," Marcus said calmly, his voice cold and clinical. "The federal prosecutor presented an airtight case. Between the financial audits, the metadata on Evelyn’s original design files, and the digital paper trail you so brilliantly left in your office safe, your legal team couldn't find a loophole if they tried."
"Evelyn," Adrian hissed, venom spitting from his cracked lips. "This is all her fault. She set me up! She’s a manipulative, ungrateful—"
"Stop right there, Mercer," Marcus interrupted, his tone sharply cutting off Adrian's rant. "Evelyn didn't steal your money. She didn't forge municipal grants, and she certainly didn't force you to embezzle funds to bankroll your mistress's lifestyle. You did that all by yourself out of sheer, unbridled arrogance."
Adrian slammed his fist against the plexiglass partition, a pathetic sound that echoed in the tiny booth. "She ruined me! I made her! She was nothing when I married her—just a poor girl from Cleveland sewing buttons in a basement!"
"And now she’s the sole owner and creative director of Vale & Hart Haute Couture, an international luxury brand currently dominating the global market with a valuation that makes Mercer Urban Holdings look like a lemonade stand," Marcus replied smoothly, leaning back in his chair.
Adrian froze, his fist dropping slowly against the table. "Vale... Vale & Hart? What does Dominic Vale have to do with this?"
"Everything," Marcus said with a faint, chilling smile. "Dominic Vale recognizes real talent when he sees it. And unlike you, he knows how to treat a partner. By the way, Adrian, Evelyn sends her regards."
"Where is she?" Adrian snarled, his eyes bulging with manic fury. "Where is my wife?"
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"She isn't your wife anymore, Adrian. The divorce papers were finalized by default this morning," Marcus said, standing up and buttoning his jacket. He placed a final document envelope flat against the glass on his side. "And as for where she is? She’s somewhere warm, successful, and entirely out of your reach. Enjoy your new home, Mercer. The accommodations suit you."
Marcus turned and walked out of the visiting room, leaving Adrian screaming obscenities into a dead plastic receiver as the guards moved in to drag him back to his cell.
