Chapter 3 - The House of Cards
At 11:55 p.m., Adrian left a voicemail.
"Francis, pick up the phone!" His voice was not lazy or smirking. It was breathless, high-pitched, and laced with absolute, primal terror. "Where did you get these documents? Francis, call me back! My mother's accounts are locked. She just called me screaming—there are federal agents in the lobby of her building!"
I sat up in my hotel bed, resting a hand on my rolling stomach. I finally tapped the screen and called him back.
He answered on the first ring.
"Francis! Oh my god, Francis, what did you do?" he panicked, the sound of tearing paper echoing in the background. "The accounts are frozen! My black card was just declined for the Belize flight!"
"You don't need a flight, Adrian," I said, my voice perfectly, terrifyingly calm. "You need a criminal defense attorney."
"Francis, please, this is insane! My mother said you forged these!"
"Your mother is currently being escorted out of her Back Bay penthouse in handcuffs, Adrian," I corrected smoothly. "Because as the rightful majority shareholder of Whitfield Holdings, I initiated a federal audit three months ago. The FBI found the original forged deeds in her offshore safety deposit box this morning."
Silence fell over the line. Heavy. Suffocating. The silence of a man realizing his entire life was a counterfeit bill, and I had just lit it on fire.
"The Brooklyn apartment is a corporate asset," I continued. "Which means it belongs to me. Building security will be up in ten minutes to escort you off the premises. Don't try to take the cream sofa. I'm having it burned."
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"Francis, no!" Adrian sobbed, the arrogant husband completely shattering into a pathetic, weeping child. "You're my wife! We're having a baby! You can't leave me with nothing!"
"Grow up, Adrian," I whispered, echoing his exact words from three hours earlier. "It's just a federal indictment."
