Chapter 9 - The Anatomy of Ruin
The fallout was swift, brutal, and historic.
Within twenty-four hours of his arrest in Key West, Christian Prescott went from being America's most beloved pop icon to the most reviled figure in modern entertainment history.
The video footage of his arrest—showing him crying in a sand-stained white tuxedo while begging his scarred fiancée for mercy—was viewed over three hundred million times in forty-eight hours. The hashtag #MonsterPrescott replaced every prayer hashtag that had once supported him.
His record label terminated his contract within three hours of the news breaking. His music was pulled from every major streaming platform globally. Radio stations instituted an absolute ban on his catalog. The "Prescott-Vance Hope Foundation" was seized by state regulators, and every dollar donated by the public was refunded or redirected to accredited burn victim treatment centers across the country.
One week later, I stood inside the high-ceilinged conference room of Vance Corporate Intelligence in Chicago.
Large glass windows overlooked the bustling city skyline below. On the long mahogany table sat three large digital monitors displaying real-time legal updates, asset liquidation feeds, and court dockets.
Gabriel sat at the end of the table, wearing a simple gray suit. He looked tired, but the dark circles beneath his eyes had cleared. He had entered a full cooperation agreement with the Department of Justice, providing sworn testimony that sealed Christian's fate in exchange for a suspended sentence and immunity from prosecution.
"Dr. Lawson surrendered his medical license yesterday afternoon," Gabriel reported, sliding a tablet across the table to me. "He pleaded guilty to three counts of criminal medical battery and conspiracy to commit murder. He was sentenced to twenty-eight years in a state penitentiary without the possibility of parole."
"And Sabrina?" I asked, sipping my black coffee.
"Her assets have been entirely liquidated," Maya Lin answered from across the table. "The Naples villa was auctioned off by federal marshals two days ago for three.eight million dollars. Every cent of the proceeds has been returned to your personal trust account. She is currently living with her sister in a two-bedroom apartment in Orlando, working as a waitress. She faces civil litigation from your legal team for six million dollars in embezzled trust recovery."
"What about the boy?" I asked softly, thinking of four-year-old Leo.
"Elias arranged for a private educational trust to be set up in Leo's name," Gabriel said quietly. "The money is locked until he turns twenty-five. Sabrina cannot touch a single penny of it. The child will be taken care of, Genevieve. He won't suffer for his parents' crimes."
I nodded slowly, satisfied. "Thank you, Gabriel."
The door opened, and Elias walked in holding a thick stack of court documents stamped with the seal of the United States District Court.
"The plea deal came through," Elias announced, sitting down at the head of the table.
I looked at him. "Did he take it?"
"He didn't have a choice," Elias said dryly. "The evidence was overwhelming. We had the hitman's recorded confession, Gabriel's wiretaps, the bank records, the medical files, and the physical testimony of Dr. Reed. His defense team told him that if he went to trial before a jury, he was facing life without parole."
"What are the terms?" I asked.
Elias opened the folder. "Christian Prescott pleaded guilty to Attempted First-Degree Murder, Aggravated Medical Battery, Wire Fraud, and Grand Larceny. He has been sentenced to forty-five years in Terre Haute Federal Penitentiary. No possibility of early federal parole for thirty-eight years."
Thirty-eight years.
By the time Christian Prescott took his first step out of a prison gate, he would be seventy-two years old. His youth, his voice, his wealth, his fame, his looks—everything he had valued above human life—would be long gone, buried under nearly four decades of gray steel walls and concrete floors.
"He asked to see you," Elias added softly, looking at me carefully. "Before he gets transferred from the county jail to the federal facility tomorrow morning. His lawyer said he won't sign the final asset surrender papers unless you give him ten minutes in the visitor's room."
Gabriel frowned. "Don't do it, Genevieve. You don't owe that monster a single second of your life."
May you like
I looked at my reflection in the dark glass of the conference room window. I reached up, my fingers gently running over the scar on my right cheekbone. It was healing well, turning from a deep jagged red into a smooth, silver line—a permanent testament to my survival.
"I'll see him," I said quietly. "I have one last thing to collect."
