He Returned From a 10-Day Trip With His Lover Carrying Flowers for His Wife—But the Nursery Was Empty, His Accounts Were Frozen...

Mason took an involuntary step back toward the door.

Arthur Hart did not look like a man whose daughter had just been betrayed. He looked like an executioner who had arrived precisely on schedule.

"Judge Hart," Mason stammered, his posture collapsing into a pathetic, stooped posture. "I... I can explain. Brooke manipulated me. She forged my signature on holding documents. I didn't know about the escrow funds—"

"Save it for the grand jury, Mason," Arthur interrupted, his voice dropping into a register that had sent cartel money launderers and corrupt politicians to federal prison for three decades. "You always were a weak man. When Emily brought you home six years ago, I looked at your hands. They were the hands of a craftsman who had never taken a hit in his life. Soft. Eager for applause. I told Emily that men who build towers out of glass usually crumble the moment the weather turns cold."

Arthur gestured to the laptop sitting on the kitchen island.

"Brooke didn't act alone, Mason. She was stupid, yes. Vain, certainly. But she was operating under your corporate authority. You gave her the key to the vault because you wanted to play the big, powerful benefactor to a younger woman while your wife was home carrying your child."

"Where is she?" Mason pleaded, ignoring the judge's insults. "Where is Emily? Where is Noah? The picture... the hospital... is he okay? Please, Arthur, I'm his father!"

Arthur’s green eyes flashed with a terrifying, ancient rage. He stepped around the counter until he was standing inches from Mason’s face.

"You ceased being his father the moment you turned your phone off in Miami while his blood was turning to poison," Arthur whispered, every word carved out of granite. "Emily spent forty-eight hours alone in the neonatal unit, watching our grandson undergo light therapy and blood transfusions. Do you know what she said to me when I arrived at the hospital, Mason?"

Mason swallowed hard, tears pouring down his cheeks. "What?"

"She said, 'Dad, don't destroy him yet. Let him finish his trip. I want him to spend every dollar he stole so the evidence is undeniable.'"

Arthur smiled—a cold, terrifying line that offered no warmth.

"She didn't cry once," Arthur continued softly. "She sat by Noah's incubator, opened her laptop, and systematically mapped out every bank account, every shell company, and every fake invoice you and Brooke created over the last twelve months. She handed the complete package to the U.S. Attorney’s office this morning at 8:00 AM."

Mason’s knees buckled. He grabbed the edge of the kitchen island to keep from falling. "The U.S. Attorney? Arthur, please! That means prison! I'm an architect! I can't go to prison!"

"Then you should have designed a better escape plan," Arthur replied smoothly. He gestured to the two men in suits. "These are senior investigators from the State Ethics and Financial Crimes Unit. They are here to take possession of Miss Lawson’s remaining domestic records. As for you, Mason..."

Arthur pulled a white envelope from his inner coat pocket and dropped it onto the marble counter.

"That is a restraining order. You are not to come within five hundred yards of Emily, Noah, or my estate in Berkshire. If you attempt to contact her, if you attempt to send a proxy, or if you step foot on my property, I will personally ensure your bail is revoked and you await trial in a maximum-security facility."

"You can't keep me from my son!" Mason screamed, his voice cracking with pathetic desperation.

"You kept yourself from your son for fifteen thousand dollars a night in Miami," Arthur spat, turning his back on him. "Gentlemen, remove Mr. Reed from the premises. He is trespassing."

The two investigators stepped forward, grabbing Mason by his arms. Mason thrashed, but he was exhausted, broken, and hopelessly outmatched. They shoved him out the front door, slamming it shut in his face.

Mason stood on the sidewalk of Back Bay in the drizzling Boston rain.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

It was an alert from his banking app.

Your personal line of credit has been canceled by the lender.

A second notification flashed immediately after.

News Alert: Reed Architecture CEO Mason Reed named in federal fraud investigation involving client escrow funds.

The story was already out. Emily hadn't just filed charges; she had leaked the audit report to the Boston Globe.

Mason stumbled down the steps toward his Porsche. As he opened the door, a black town car pulled up behind his vehicle. The rear window rolled down slowly.

Brooke Lawson sat in the back seat, wearing dark sunglasses and a silk scarf wrapped around her head. She held a passport in her leather-gloved hand.

Mason froze. "Brooke?!"

Brooke looked at him through the dark lenses, her lips drawn into a tight, bitter line. She didn't look triumphant. She looked terrified.

"You idiot," Brooke said, her voice shaking behind the glass. "You told me your wife was a pushover. You told me she didn't understand the business."

"You stole the money!" Mason yelled, rushing toward the car. "You took the power of attorney! You set me up!"

"I took what you offered me!" Brooke screamed back. "You were the one who signed the papers! You were the one who wanted to look like a big shot! Your wife’s lawyers just seized my private accounts in the Bahamas, Mason! I'm broke! I'm flying home to my parents in Ohio because I don't even have enough money to pay my defense attorney!"