Chapter 7 - Shadows Behind Bars
The holding facility at the Metropolitan Correctional Center was cold, sterile, and smelled faintly of industrial disinfectant and stale coffee. The heavy steel doors banged shut with a metallic finality that echoed through the gray cinderblock corridors.
Ethan Cole sat in a hard plastic chair inside the high-security visitor booth, staring at his reflection in the smudged plexiglass divider. The custom Tom Ford tuxedo was long gone, replaced by a coarse orange jumpsuit that hung loosely on his frame. Without his styling products, his hair looked dull, and dark, exhausted circles bruised the skin beneath his hollow eyes.
The heavy metal door across from him clicked open, and a corrections officer escorted me into the booth. I wore a sharp, charcoal-gray Chanel pantsuit, my posture erect, my expression completely impassive.
Ethan scrambled forward, gripping the edge of the metal table with trembling hands, pressing his face close to the glass partition.
“Claire!” he gasped, his voice raspy and desperate. “Thank God you came. You got my message, right? You know if you don’t sign those release forms, the federal trustees are going to auction off my personal accounts for pennies on the dollar! We can settle this, Claire. Please. We were husband and wife once.”
I sat down slowly, folding my hands neatly on the table in front of me. I didn’t speak for a long, agonizing moment, letting the terrifying weight of silence crush whatever fragile hope he was clinging to.
“Husband and wife,” I repeated softly, the words dripping with heavy irony. “Is that what you called it when you forged my signature while I was recovering from pregnancy complications? Is that what you called it when you invited the woman who tried to murder your unborn child to our marital home?”
“I made a mistake!” Ethan choked out, tears of genuine panic welling in his bloodshot eyes. “Bianca manipulated me! She promised me political connections, investor backing—she poisoned my mind!”
“No, Ethan,” I corrected him, my voice cutting through the glass like a scalpel. “Bianca didn’t poison your mind. She simply matched your character. You were always a parasite, Ethan. I was just the host who kept you alive long enough for you to mistake yourself for a god.”
“Claire, please!” He slammed his palm against the plexiglass partition, earning a sharp rap from a guard standing in the corner. “I’m facing twenty years in federal prison! Twenty years! You can’t let them do this to me! Have mercy!”
“Mercy?” I tilted my head, studying him with clinical detachment. “When I begged you to pay my medical bills during my third trimester, did you show mercy? When you threw me out onto the street with two suitcases and a canceled credit card, did you show mercy? You wanted total victory, Ethan. Well, you won the prize. Enjoy your accommodations.”
“You’re a cold-hearted monster!” Ethan snapped, his mask of desperation instantly slipping back into bitter, venomous hatred. “You planned all of this from the start! You used me!”
“No, Ethan,” I said, standing up smoothly and smoothing down my jacket. “I built you. And what a creator builds, a creator can easily demolish.”
May you like
As I turned and walked out of the visitation room, leaving his desperate screams echoing against the concrete walls, I knew the battle was won—but in the cutthroat world of high finance, enemies never truly stay dead.
==================================================
