Chapter 8 - The Reading of the Debt
Christian couldn't speak. He stared at the right side of my face—at the raw, violent physical proof of his cold-blooded cruelty—and then at my single, clear, terrifying left eye.
"You're... you're speaking..." he stammered, his mind short-circuiting as five days of carefully constructed lies crumbled into dust around him. "Your face... the hospital said..."
"The hospital in Columbus said whatever Gabriel told them to say," I replied quietly, taking a slight step closer. "And Gabriel works for me now."
Christian's head snapped toward Gabriel, who was standing quietly near the edge of the patio, holding his phone up, continuing to record every second of the interaction for the federal record.
"Gabriel..." Christian whispered, realization hitting him like a lightning strike. "You traitorous bastard... you set me up!"
"He didn't set you up, Christian," I interrupted, drawing his attention back to me. "You set yourself up the moment you mistook my love for weakness."
Elias stepped up beside me, opening a heavy black leather folder and handing me a single piece of thick parchment paper.
"Christian Prescott," I read aloud, my tone mimicking a judge delivering a death sentence. "As of 8:00 a.m. this morning, the Marion County Prosecutor’s Office, in conjunction with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, has unsealed a fourteen-count indictment against you."
Sabrina gasped, dropping to her knees on the sand, weeping hysterically while holding her child. "Christian! Do something! Tell them she's lying!"
"Count One," I continued, ignoring her completely. "Solicitation of Attempted Murder in the First Degree, for hiring Marcus Vance to execute a chemical acid attack against my person on October 14th in Indianapolis."
Christian took a terrified step back. "I... I don't know any Marcus Vance! You have no proof!"
"Marcus Vance was apprehended six days ago at Indianapolis International Airport," Elias interjected smoothly, pulling a tablet from his coat and flashing a video thumbnail. "He is currently sitting in a federal holding cell in Chicago. He gave a four-hour recorded confession detailing your payment of fifty-five thousand dollars, the chemical compound used, and your explicit instructions to ensure Genevieve was permanently disfigured."
Christian’s jaw worked uselessly. Sweat broke out across his forehead, running down his pale cheeks in thick, greasy streams.
"Count Two," I read on, my voice icy and steady. "Multiple counts of Aggravated Battery and Forced Medical Administration. For three years, you paid Dr. Arthur Lawson four hundred thousand dollars to secretly administer Methotrexate to me under the guise of fertility supplements, intentionally inducing three violent miscarriages."
The twelve wedding guests gasped in collective horror. Sabrina’s mother turned to look at Christian with wide, disgusted eyes, clutching her pearls.
"No..." Christian whimpered, shaking his head frantically. "No, no, no... Genny, baby, listen to me... that was for us! I wasn't ready to be a father! I was stressed! I made mistakes!"
"You weren't ready to be a father to my children," I corrected, my eye sweeping over to Sabrina and Leo. "But you were perfectly happy being a father to his."
I stepped closer to Sabrina. She cowered on the grass, covering her face with her veil.
"Sabrina Highsmith," I said, looking down at her as if she were dirt under my shoe. "As of twelve o'clock today, the United States District Court of Florida has issued a temporary emergency asset freeze on all property in your name. Your four-million-dollar estate in Naples, your bank accounts, your vehicles, and your jewelry—purchased with eight million dollars embezzled from my family's joint trust—have been seized by federal marshals."
"My house?!" Sabrina shrieked, looking up at me with raw, ugly fury. "You can't take my house! I have a child!"
"You have a child living in an embezzled house built on the blood of my three dead babies," I spat, my voice dropping into a register so dark that Sabrina recoiled as if struck. "You will be out of that house by sunset tomorrow, or you will be held in federal contempt. And as for your marriage..."
I turned back to Christian.
"Your entire music catalog—the publishing rights, the master recordings, the sync licensing revenue worth an estimated forty-five million dollars—was officially transferred into my exclusive, sole ownership two hours ago under the terms of our original 2021 trust default clause."
Christian looked as if he had been stabbed in the heart. "My catalog... my music... you took my music?!"
"You gave it to me five years ago when you signed that paper, Christian," I said softly. "You thought you were signing a piece of paper to get two hundred thousand dollars from my grandfather. You didn't realize you were signing away your soul."
The FBI lead agent stepped forward, pulling a pair of heavy steel handcuffs from his utility belt.
"Christian Prescott," the agent announced loudly, grabbing Christian's right wrist and twisting it behind his back with surgical efficiency. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney..."
SNAP.
The metal cuffs locked tightly around Christian's wrists.
"Genny! Please!" Christian screamed, breaking down into pathetic, breathless sobs as the officers forced his hands behind his tuxedo jacket. "Don't do this! I love you! I've always loved you! It was Sabrina! She pressured me! She threatened to go to the press about Leo if I didn't get rid of you! It was her idea!"
Sabrina's head snapped up, her face twisted in utter, unbelievable betrayal. "WHAT?! You lying piece of shit! You paid for the acid! You called the hitman!"
"Shut up, you bitch!" Christian screamed back at her, his handsome face ugly, contorted, and dripping with pathetic tears as he was dragged across the sandy lawn toward the FBI helicopter. "Genny! Look at me! Look at me, please! I'll give you everything! I'll give you the money! Just don't let them lock me up! GENNY!"
I stood on the sand, my hands folded neatly in front of my black silk suit, watching the man I had loved for five years weep like a child as he was pushed into the back of the aircraft.
I didn't yell. I didn't throw a single insult. I simply watched him go.
Beside me, Elias lowered his phone. "The press release just went out to every major news outlet in the world. The video of his arrest, Marcus Vance's confession, and the financial records are live on the internet."
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I looked up at the bright, clear blue Caribbean sky. The ocean breeze blew across my face, rustling my hair, cooling the raw, scarred skin on my right cheek.
The fire was gone. The burn was finally over.
