Chapter 7 - The Desperate Rats
Three weeks passed, and the Ashford dynasty fell with the speed of an avalanche.
The federal indictment landed with crushing weight. The Southern District of New York charged Grayson Ashford with twenty-two counts of wire fraud, tax evasion, and embezzlement. Vanessa Cole, facing up to twenty-five years in federal prison, had turned state's evidence within forty-eight hours of her arrest, handing over encrypted text messages, hotel receipts, and foreign bank account routing numbers in exchange for a plea deal.
Grayson was released on a five-million-dollar bail, secured only after Eleanor mortgaged the Ashford family’s ancestral brownstone on the Upper East Side. He was stripped of his passport, fitted with an ankle monitor, and banished to a dilapidated guest cottage on the edge of the family’s mortgaged estate.
Meanwhile, Greenwich was an oasis of absolute peace.
Clara was thriving. She had gained nearly two pounds, her cheeks turning into soft, rosy cushions, her dark eyes following my voice whenever I sang to her in the nursery. My father had transformed the entire west wing of the Vance estate into a state-of-the-art sanctuary for Clara and me, complete with round-the-clock pediatric care and top-tier private security.
For the first time in six years, I could breathe without feeling the invisible, suffocating weight of Grayson’s conditional approval.
It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon when Julian Cross arrived at the estate with a thick leather folder. He found me in the sunroom, nursing Clara while the rain tapped gently against the panoramic glass windows.
"The divorce settlement proposal arrived from Grayson’s legal team this morning," Julian said, taking a seat across from me and setting the folder down.
"Did they actually have the audacity to make demands?" I asked, looking up with a wry smile.
"Desperation makes people delusional, Evelyn," Julian replied, pulling out the papers. "Grayson’s new criminal defense attorney—since his first two firms quit over unpaid retainers—is offering an uncontested divorce on two conditions."
"Let me guess," I murmured, gently burping Clara against my shoulder. "Money and custody."
"Fifty million dollars from the Vance Trust to establish a 'defense and rehabilitation fund' for Grayson," Julian said, reading the bullet points with dripping sarcasm. "And joint legal custody of Clara, with mandatory unsupervised weekend visitation starting at six months."
I let out a soft, humorless laugh. "He really thinks he has leverage?"
"His lawyer claims that if you don't agree, Grayson will go to the press and claim that Arthur Vance used illegal corporate espionage to obtain the foundation’s internal server records, thereby tainting the federal evidence. He’s threatening to drag you through a five-year public custody battle."
"He doesn't have five years, Julian," I said, looking down at Clara’s peaceful, sleeping face. "His trial is scheduled for November."
"I know," Julian smiled softly. "And what Grayson doesn't know is that the United States Attorney just uncovered another little gem during the forensic asset recovery."
"What did they find?"
"Grayson didn't just steal from the pediatric cancer endowment," Julian revealed, leaning in closer. "Three years ago, he forged your signature on an insurance policy taken out through a Cayman Islands underwriter. A five-million-dollar life insurance policy on *you*, Evelyn."
A chill ran down my spine, so cold and sharp it made my stomach churn. "He insured my life?"
"With a clause that paid out double indemnity in the event of accidental death or maternal complications during childbirth," Julian said, his hazel eyes dark with terrifying fury. "The policy was activated two weeks before you were admitted to the hospital with premature contractions in your seventh month."
I stared at Julian in absolute, horrified disbelief.
The memory of that evening three weeks before the gala flashed through my mind: Grayson bringing me a hot cup of chamomile tea, smiling lovingly, kissing my forehead, telling me to drink every drop because I looked exhausted. Two hours later, I had been rushed to the emergency room with violent abdominal cramps and dangerous spikes in my blood pressure. The doctors had barely managed to stop premature labor.
He hadn't just neglected me. He hadn't just humiliated me.
He had been waiting for me to die.
"Julian," I whispered, my voice trembling with a rage so profound it felt ancient. "Where is Grayson right now?"
"He’s at the Ashford cottage in Bedford, confined by his bail conditions," Julian answered. "Why?"
Before I could answer, the security intercom on the wall buzzed sharply.
May you like
My father’s head of security, Briggs, spoke through the speaker, his voice tense. "Miss Vance. We have a situation at the main gate. It’s Grayson Ashford. He cut his ankle monitor. He’s outside the gates on foot, screaming to see you."
***
