Chapter 8 - The Paternity Trap
The visitor’s room in the medical wing of the Turner Guilford Knight Correctional Center was divided by a thick panel of reinforced Plexiglas.
Sloane Vance sat on the metal stool on the prisoner’s side of the glass.
She had traded her La Perla silk robe for an oversized, rough orange jumpsuit. Her long brown hair was unwashed, pulled back with a rubber band. Without her professional makeup and luxury skincare, her skin looked sallow, gray, and hollowed out by fear.
On the other side of the glass sat Elena Cruz.
Elena was accompanied by Dr. Marcus Vance—an independent clinical geneticist specializing in prenatal testing—and Julian Mercer.
Sloane picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver with trembling hands. Elena lifted hers on the other side.
"Have you come to gloat?" Sloane rasped, her voice trembling with exhaustion and bitterness. "Did Olivia send you to watch me rot in here?"
"Olivia hasn't mentioned your name in forty-eight hours, Miss Vance," Elena replied coolly. "She is currently in London, finalizing the refinancing of Caldwell Hospitality’s European portfolio. You are simply not that important to her."
Sloane’s jaw tightened. "Then why are you here? I told the public defender I’m not talking to anyone from the trust."
"We are here to deliver the results of the court-ordered non-invasive prenatal paternity analysis," Elena said, pointing toward the geneticist sitting beside her.
Sloane froze. The color drained from her face, leaving her looking like a ghost in an orange jumpsuit.
"The test was conducted using the cell-free fetal DNA extracted from your blood draw at Mount Sinai," Elena explained, tapping a sealed manila envelope resting on the metal counter. "The federal magistrate ordered the test yesterday as part of the asset forfeiture proceedings to determine the legitimate beneficiaries of any disputed trust disbursements."
"I know who the father is," Sloane whispered defensively, though her eyes darted frantically around the room. "Grant is the father. He’s the one who promised to take care of me. He’s the one who signed the lease."
"Grant Caldwell’s DNA was compared against the fetal markers," Elena said, picking up the envelope. "He is excluded. Zero percent probability of paternity."
Sloane squeezed her eyes shut. A single, heavy tear tracked down her dirty cheek.
"And Julian Croft?" Sloane whispered, her voice barely audible through the crackling telephone line. "Did you test Croft?"
Elena opened the envelope and pulled out the clinical report.
"Julian Croft was tested under federal grand jury subpoena yesterday afternoon," Elena said. "He is also excluded, Miss Vance."
Sloane’s eyes snapped open. She stared at Elena through the Plexiglas, her mouth agape in absolute, genuine shock.
"What?" Sloane gasped. "That's... that's impossible! It had to be Julian! We were together in New York! In Miami!"
Elena Cruz looked at her with an expression that was almost fascinating in its clinical detachment.
"According to the federal genetic database," Elena read from the document, "the fetal DNA markers match a third individual: one Derek Miller, a twenty-six-year-old fitness instructor at the Equinox gym on Brickell Avenue, whose DNA was entered into the national registry following a misdemeanor reckless driving conviction in 2021."
Elena looked up from the paper, locking eyes with the shattered woman across the glass.
"You slept with Grant Caldwell to secure his corporate wealth," Elena said softly. "You slept with Julian Croft to secure your five-million-dollar corporate espionage payout. And you slept with your personal trainer for entertainment. And in the end, Miss Vance, you destroyed two men, ruined your entire life, and face fifteen years in federal prison for a child fathered by a man who earns twenty-eight dollars an hour teaching spin classes."
Sloane let out a ragged, choking scream.
She dropped the plastic telephone receiver. It clattered against the metal shelf, swinging wildly by its reinforced steel cord.
She buried her face in her cuffed hands, rocking back and forth on the hard metal stool, sobbing with a depth of despair so profound that even the correctional officer standing by the door shifted uncomfortably.
Through the glass, Elena Cruz didn't smile. She didn't gloat.
She simply picked up the paternity report, placed it neatly back inside the manila envelope, and stood up.
"The federal prosecutors will be offering you a plea agreement tomorrow morning, Miss Vance," Elena said through the small speaker grille. "Full cooperation in the wire fraud case against Grant Caldwell in exchange for a recommended sentence of seven years instead of fifteen. I suggest you take it. Because Derek Miller certainly isn't going to pay your legal fees."
May you like
Elena turned and walked out of the room, her footsteps echoing down the concrete corridor, leaving Sloane Vance alone with the wreckage of her own monstrous ambition.
***
