Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room
At 1400 hours, down in the holding facility at NYPD Midtown Precinct, the fluorescent lights hummed with a low, irritating buzz.
Adrian Vale sat at the stainless-steel interrogation table. His bespoke tuxedo was wrinkled, his silk tie was missing, and his hair—usually meticulously styled with pomade—was sticking out in wild, disheveled tufts. The arrogant billionaire philanthropist of last night had vanished, replaced by a sweating, panicked man who looked ten years older.
The heavy steel door clicked open, and I walked in, carrying a single manila folder.
I pulled out the metal chair opposite him and sat down.
Adrian looked up, his bloodshot eyes widening in a mixture of fury and desperate disbelief. “Elena!” he hissed, scrambling forward until the heavy iron handcuffs chained to the table clanked loudly against the metal. “Get me out of here! Tell your brothers this is a mistake! Call my lawyers—what are you doing here?!”
“I came to visit my husband,” I said smoothly, opening the folder and sliding a single sheet of paper across the table toward him.
Adrian glanced down at it. His breath caught. It was the preliminary asset seizure inventory for our Greenwich estate, our Hamptons summer house, his vintage car collection, and his private bank accounts.
“Everything?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You took… everything?”
“Not everything, Adrian,” I corrected gently. “I left you the clothes on your back. Though, strictly speaking, those belong to the foundation too.”
Adrian slammed his fists against the metal table, rattling the room. “You manipulative little bitch! You played me! For eight years, you pretended to be weak, quiet, obedient—you let me think you were nothing!”
“You never asked who I was, Adrian,” I replied, my voice remaining unnervingly calm. “You were too busy looking in the mirror to notice the foundation beneath your feet. When you married the 'orphan from upstate,' you thought you were acquiring a quiet trophy. You didn't realize you were inviting the wolves back into the fold.”
He slumped back into his chair, defeat washing over his face in gray, ugly waves. Tears of pure rage and self-pity welled up in his eyes. “What am I going to do? The D.A. is pushing for fifteen years on the wire fraud charges alone. Federal prison, Elena… I won’t survive a week in there.”
“No, you probably won't,” I agreed honestly. “Especially not when the inmates find out you ran a charity foundation for abused women while physically abusing your own wife behind closed doors.”
Adrian shuddered, burying his face in his cuffed hands.
May you like
I stood up, smoothed down the lapels of my jacket, and looked down at him one last time.
“Goodbye, Adrian,” I said softly. “Don't worry about the divorce papers—my brother the judge has already expedited them. You’ll be single by the time your arraignment starts.”
