Chapter 3 - The Freezing of the Empire
By sunrise, the digital machinery I set in motion overnight had begun to devour the Ward family empire from the inside out.
From my hospital bed, with my left cheek wrapped in sterile gauze and an IV dripping saline into my arm, I logged into our family holding corporation's primary banking portal. As the senior risk actuary and minority director, I possessed emergency fiduciary override keys—protocols designed to protect corporate entities from catastrophic internal fraud or hostile actions.
And right now, there was no greater fraud or liability than a mother and daughter using corporate operational funds to purchase restricted industrial chemicals for premeditated assault.
My phone buzzed relentlessly on the hospital tray table. A missed call from Sibil. Followed by another. Then a WhatsApp message with a preview snippet: Sloan, answer your phone right now! What is wrong with you? Fallon’s brand partners are threatening to pull sponsorships because your little hospital stunt is trending negatively! Unblock our credit cards immediately!
I stared at the screen, letting out a quiet, humorless breath. They hadn't even realized the police were already at their door; they thought this was still just a PR crisis to be managed with damage control teams and publicists.
"Maya," I said, not looking up from my tablet. "Did you forward the forensic chemical lab reports and the corporate credit card purchase logs to the district attorney's financial crimes division?"
Maya, who had slept upright in the uncomfortable plastic hospital chair with a blanket draped over her shoulders, nodded tiredly. "Sent it encrypted at 4:30 AM, right after the duty prosecutor came online. The D.A.'s office called back twenty minutes ago. They’re expediting the arrest warrants for both Fallon and Sibil based on aggravated assault with a deadly weapon and corporate embezzlement."
"Good," I said, refreshing the banking dashboard.
The screen blinked, updating the status of all linked accounts. Status: Frozen under judicial administrative hold.
Across the board, the financial lifeblood of the Ward family vanished. Fallon’s primary operational checking account—funded by her lifestyle blog’s LLC—was locked tight. Our parents' real estate liquidity accounts, used to service their massive mortgage portfolios on suburban luxury properties and country club memberships, hit a brick wall. Every debit card, credit line, and automated vendor payment bounced with an error code signaling an active criminal fraud investigation.
For most people, a frozen account is an inconvenience. For social media influencers who live on credit, constant cash flow, and superficial displays of extreme wealth, a frozen account is an immediate, catastrophic asphyxiation.
At 9:15 AM, the door to my hospital room swung open with a violent crash.
It wasn't a nurse. It was Sibil.
Her designer ivory blouse was rumpled, her hair pulled back into a frantic, uneven knot, and her face flushed with a terrifying mixture of rage and panic. Behind her stood Fallon, dressed in an oversized designer hoodie with the hood pulled low over her face, frantically tapping away at her phone screen with trembling, manicured nails.
Two hospital security guards scrambled down the hallway behind them, shouting, "Ma'am, you can't just barge into a restricted ward—"
"Get out!" Sibil shrieked at the guards, her voice echoing off the linoleum walls with the shrill authority of a woman accustomed to bullying everyone in her orbit. She slammed her designer handbag onto the foot of my bed, glaring down at me with eyes blazing with pure venom. "Sloan! Have you completely lost your mind? Are you running some kind of sick smear campaign from a hospital bed?"
I didn't flinch. I slowly set my tablet down on my lap, leaning back against the pillows. My left eye was slightly swollen from the chemical burn, but my gaze was laser-focused.
"Keep your voice down, Sibil," I said, my tone flat, cold, and entirely devoid of emotion. "You're disturbing the other patients. And security is already on their way back to escort you out."
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Fallon yanked down her hood, her face pale, her lips trembling as she pointed a shaking finger at me. "You did this! You locked my accounts! All my brand deals for the fall line require active capital flow to fulfill production contracts! If I miss the delivery window, I’m facing a five-million-dollar breach of contract lawsuit!"
"Then I suggest you start calling your lawyers," I replied calmly. "Because a lawsuit is going to be the least of your worries by the end of the day."
