Chapter 4 - The 45th Floor
When the elevator doors chimed open on the 45th floor five minutes later, Ethan stumbled out into the marble reception hall.
He looked disastrous. He was wearing the same shirt from yesterday, unbuttoned at the collar, his eyes bloodshot, his hair messy. He looked like a man who had spent twenty-four hours drinking and panicking in an empty apartment.
Two burly corporate security officers walked closely behind him, ensuring he didn't make any sudden moves.
"Laurel!" Ethan yelled, rushing toward my open office door. "Laurel, you have to talk to me! You blocked my number! You froze my corporate credit cards! I couldn't even pay for a cab this morning!"
I sat behind my massive mahogany desk, my hands laced calmly over my notebook. "Sit down, Ethan."
Ethan slammed his hands flat onto my desk, leaning over me, his breath smelling faintly of stale scotch. "Laurel, stop this insanity! Okay, I got carried away yesterday! I was stupid! I apologized a hundred times on your voicemail! But freezing my corporate accounts? Telling the board that I’m fired? Do you have any idea what people are saying about me on LinkedIn right now?"
"Sit down, Ethan," I repeated, my voice dropping an octave into a tone of quiet, lethal authority.
Something in my eyes made him freeze. Slowly, he pulled back a leather chair and sank into it, wiping a coat of cold sweat from his forehead.
"Laurel, please," he whimpered, trying to adopt a soft, gentle expression. "We can fix this. We don't have to annul the marriage. We can go on the honeymoon to St. Barts. We can tell the press it was just a medical emergency. I’ll never speak to Vanessa again, I swear on my life—"
"Speaking of Vanessa," I interrupted smoothly, sliding a printed document across the mahogany desk toward him. "How is Apex Logistics LLC doing these days?"
Ethan went completely, utterly rigid.
The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse. His eyes darted down to the paper, seeing the highlighted wire transfers, the invoice numbers, and Vanessa Sterling’s name printed in bold ink.
"What... what is this?" he stammered, his voice trembling violently.
"This is forty-eight counts of corporate embezzlement, wire fraud, and grand larceny, Ethan," I said, leaning forward. "You stole $1.4 million from Whitmore Development over ninety days. You funneled it to your mistress's shell company, thinking that marrying me would bury the paper trail forever."
"Laurel... no... listen to me!" Ethan gasped, scrambling out of his seat, his hands shaking so hard he nearly knocked over my desk lamp. "Vanessa set me up! She told me it was a legitimate logistics firm! She told me she needed the capital for an investment! I was just trying to help her out of debt—"
"You were stealing from my family to fund your mistress, Ethan!" I stood up, slamming my open palm onto the desk with a crack that echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room. "You sat at my parents' dinner table every Sunday! You drank my father's wine! You looked me in the eyes and told me you loved me, while you were quietly looting the company my grandfather built with his bare hands!"
"I’ll pay it back!" Ethan sobbed, falling to his knees beside my desk, reaching desperately for the hem of my trousers. "I’ll give every penny back, Laurel! Just don't call the police! Please! My career will be over! I’ll go to prison!"
I stepped back, pulling my leg away from his reaching hands with pure disgust.
"Your career was over the second you told me to shift over in that bridal car, Ethan," I said coldly.
The heavy frosted glass doors of my office opened.
Three uniformed NYPD officers and two investigators from the Manhattan District Attorney’s office walked into the room, holding a signed federal arrest warrant.
"Ethan Caldwell?" the lead investigator asked. "You are under arrest for grand larceny in the first degree, scheme to defraud, and corporate wire fraud."
Ethan let out a pathetic, wailing cry as the officers pulled him up off the carpet, forced his arms behind his back, and snapped heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists.
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As they dragged him toward the executive elevators, Ethan turned his head, his eyes wild with terror. "Laurel! Please! Help me! Call your father! Tell him to drop the charges!"
I didn't answer. I simply picked up my coffee cup, turned my back to him, and looked out the window at the morning sun illuminating the city.
