Chapter 3 - The Cold Streets of Chicago
The rain outside had turned into a steady, freezing downpour by the time the private security officers ushered Brendan, Diane, and Jessica out the front iron gates of the estate.
They hadn't been allowed to take their designer bags, their jewelry boxes, or their fur coats. Arthur’s legal team had immediately placed a forensic audit hold on every asset inside the house to determine what had been purchased using Vantage Apex corporate accounts.
Diane stood on the wet asphalt in her silk dining dress, her expensive shoes soaking up the muddy water overflowing from the curb. Her perfectly styled hair was ruined by the rain, plastering against her face like dark cobwebs.
“Brendan!” she sobbed, grabbing her son’s arm and shaking him violently. “Do something! Call your friends! Call the mayor! We can't stand out here in the rain like dogs!”
Brendan stood under the streetlamp, staring at the massive iron gates as they slid shut with a heavy, final CLANG. The digital keypad on the stone pillar glowed red, signaling that the master override codes had been engaged.
“There’s no one to call, Mom,” Brendan said, his voice completely flat, stripped of every ounce of pride he had carried for thirty-five years. “Every friend I have works for Vantage Apex. Every country club member I know bought their shares through Cassidy’s trust.”
Jessica was sitting on the wet curb, her head buried in her hands, weeping hysterically. “My car... my penthouse... my clothes... she took everything... she took everything in five minutes!”
“She didn't take it, Jessica,” Brendan whispered, tears mixing with the rain streaming down his face. “She owned it. She owned all of it. And we threw a bucket of dirty water in her face.”
Inside the estate, the thick double-paned glass windows blocked out the sound of their weeping.
I sat on the soft leather sofa in the main living room, wrapped in a warm cashmere blanket that Arthur’s assistant had brought down from the master suite. A mug of hot chamomile tea sat steaming on the mahogany coffee table in front of me.
Arthur sat in the armchair opposite me, reviewing the tablet screen in his hands.
“The regional board has been completely purged,” Arthur reported softly. “Victor Vance has been suspended pending the internal audit. The forensic teams are currently going through Brendan’s accounts. We’ll have the full indictment ready for the state prosecutor by tomorrow morning.”
I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the cushion. “I don't want revenge, Arthur. I just want it to be over.”
“I know, child,” Arthur said gently, his eyes filled with the paternal warmth he had shown me since I was a little girl sitting on my grandfather’s knee in the executive boardroom. “Your grandfather always said you had too much heart for this business. But what they did to you tonight... what Brendan allowed his family to do to you while you are carrying the sole heir to this empire... it was unforgivable.”
“Is the baby secure legally?” I asked, opening my eyes and resting my hands over my stomach.
“Completely,” Arthur assured me. “I’ve already filed a pre-natal protection order with the Cook County Family Court. Brendan’s parental rights will be severely restricted, if not entirely terminated, based on the documented emotional and physical abuse from tonight’s incident. The estate security cameras in the dining room captured everything.”
I nodded slowly. I had forgotten about the subtle, hidden lenses embedded in the crown molding of the dining room—a standard security feature installed in every high-value corporate property owned by Vantage Apex.
Every insult. Every laugh. The moment Diane lifted that bucket of icy water. The moment Brendan threw his head back and laughed.
It was all recorded in crystal-clear, high-definition four-K video, preserved on an immutable cloud server three hundred miles away.
“Where are they going to go tonight?” I asked softly.
May you like
Arthur looked at me, raising an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”
“No,” I whispered, looking out the grand window at the dark, rain-soaked driveway. “I suppose it doesn't.”
