Chapter 10 - THE FORCED AUDIT
Following the public arrest at the Sovereign Gala, the destruction of Ryan Mitchell accelerated from a corporate restructuring into an outright demolition.
By Monday morning, the forensic audit ordered by Blackwell Capital had yielded its first catastrophic findings. Sitting in the sun-drenched library of Blackwell Manor, I reviewed the preliminary report alongside Arthur Sterling.
“He didn’t just siphon company funds for Madison’s jewelry,” Arthur explained, sliding an itemized ledger across the glass coffee table. “Over the past three years, Ryan transferred eight million dollars out of your father’s military foundation trust—funds that were supposed to build housing for wounded veterans—and routed them through offshore accounts in Belize to cover his margin calls.”
My hands tightened around my teacup until my knuckles turned white. “He stole from my father’s veterans?”
“He did,” Arthur said solemnly. “And because you were technically listed as a co-signatory on the corporate account—though your signature was blatantly forged—he attempted to make it look as though you were the one authorizing the transfers.”
Jonathan entered the library, carrying a fresh cup of decaffeinated herbal tea for me. He placed it gently on the saucer beside my hand, his presence immediately grounding the storm of anger inside me.
“The federal prosecutor has already reviewed the handwriting analysis,” Jonathan said, his voice calm and resolute. “The forgeries were clumsy. The charges against Ryan have been upgraded to grand larceny and wire fraud. Bail was set at fifteen million dollars this morning. He cannot make it.”
“And Madison?” I asked.
“Her defense attorney tried to argue she was an unwitting victim,” Arthur chuckled coldly. “Until the FBI produced text messages from her private phone showing her explicitly instructing Ryan to ‘drain the Carter girl dry before she pops the brat.’ She has been denied bail as a flight risk.”
A gentle kick inside my belly pulled my attention away from the documents. Then another. Then a sharp, tightening sensation gripped my lower abdomen.
I winced, drawing in a sharp breath through my teeth, my hand instinctively pressing against the curve of my stomach.
Jonathan was at my side in an instant, dropping to one knee beside the sofa, his eyes filled with intense vigilance. “Hannah? What is it?”
“Just... Braxton Hicks, I think,” I gasped, waiting for the tension to pass. But the cramp lingered, tighter and sharper than any false labor contraction I had felt over the previous weeks. “Or maybe... they’re getting impatient.”
Jonathan didn't hesitate. “Call Dr. Vance. Now,” he commanded Arthur.
Within thirty seconds, Dr. Vance and two nurses rushed into the library with portable diagnostic monitors. Dr. Vance placed a doppler wand against my belly, listening intently to the three distinct heartbeats.
Her expression grew serious.
“Your cervix is beginning to efface, Hannah,” Dr. Vance said calmly, though her eyes betrayed the urgency. “You are thirty-four weeks. With triplets, this is well within the delivery window, but we are not waiting for an emergency. The pressure on your uterine wall is mounting. We need to move you to the medical wing immediately.”
Jonathan took my hand, his grip solid and unwavering as the nurses brought a wheelchair to my side.
“You’re going to be fine, Hannah,” he murmured, his face inches from mine, his eyes burning with absolute devotion. “I am right here. Nothing in this world will harm you or our children.”
*Our children.*
The words slipped out so naturally, so effortlessly, that the pain in my body momentarily vanished beneath a wave of profound, overwhelming warmth. Jonathan didn't just see them as Thomas Carter’s bloodline. He loved them already.
May you like
As the nurses wheeled me toward the east wing, outside the grand windows of the manor, the Seattle sky darkened into an ominous, bruise-like purple. A historic winter gale was rolling in off the Pacific Ocean.
And in the shadows of the city jail, a desperate man had just made a deadly deal.
