Chapter 3 - The Boardroom TrapBy Friday morning, the morning sun was casting long shadows across the private recovery suite. My father, Walter Prescott, sat in the armchair beside my bed. He looked every bit the billionaire titan he was—impeccably tailored suit, silver hair brushed back, and a face carved from granite. Spread out across the overbed table were not baby blankets, but forensic financial printouts, bank statements, and the corporate audit logs of Pacific Harbor Freight.
"He's been embezzling from the regional expansion fund for six months," my father said, his voice cold and analytical as he flipped a page. "And he used your personal household account as a clean-up conduit to pay off Kendra Mercer's shell company, Beacon Communications, under the guise of 'marketing consulting.' It’s grand larceny, wire fraud, and corporate espionage all rolled into one."
Just then, the digital clock on the wall flipped to 8:55 AM.
Five minutes before Garrett’s scheduled return.
"Let him in," I said quietly, nursing my baby girl while my son slept soundly in the bassinet beside me. "Let him walk right into the trap he built for himself."
True to form, at exactly 9:00 AM, the door pushed open. Garrett strode into the room carrying a fresh venti coffee, his expression a mask of arrogant impatience. He didn't even look at the bassinets. He walked straight to the edge of my bed, dropping a fresh set of papers onto the tray.
"I hope you’ve come to your senses, Brooke," Garrett said briskly, adjusting his tie. "Time is money, and I have a corporate board meeting at eleven. Sign the papers, take the check, and let’s get this—"
"Garrett," I interrupted, my voice calm, steady, and devoid of the fear he was so used to exploiting.
He paused, finally glancing up. For the first time, he noticed the older man sitting quietly in the corner shadow of the room. Garrett’s eyes narrowed as he recognized my father, Walter Prescott. Color instantly drained from Garrett's cheeks.
"W-Walter?" Garrett stammered, taking half a step back. "Sir? What are you... what are you doing here?"
My father stood up slowly, buttoning his jacket. He didn't yell. He didn't have to. He simply slid a single document across the tray—the forensic audit report detailing every single dollar Garrett had stolen from Pacific Harbor Freight and funneled into Kendra’s account.
"I own the company you work for, Garrett," my father said softly, his voice dripping with lethal iciness. "And as of nine-one-five this morning, our corporate compliance division has filed federal criminal charges against you for embezzlement and corporate fraud."
Garrett stared at the paper, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "No... no, that's impossible. That's a mistake—"
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"And as for your personal life," I added, looking him dead in the eye while cradling our daughter, "your mistress Kendra is currently being interviewed by federal investigators regarding Beacon Communications. You wanted to start a new family, Garrett? Well, you're about to spend the next ten years sharing a cell block with people who don't care about your designer suits."
Garrett stumbled backward, his coffee cup slipping from his fingers and shattering against the hospital floor, dark brown liquid pooling like blood around his expensive shoes.
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