Chapter 3 - The Price of Treason
The surgical briefing room fell dead silent as the department roster was officially presented. Daniel sat in the back row, his face drained of color, beads of sweat glistening across his forehead. Every time our eyes met, he quickly looked down at his shoes like an obedient schoolboy who had just been caught cheating on an exam.
Sloane Whitaker was furious. As the hospital’s associate director of public relations and donor affairs, she wasn't accustomed to anyone holding authority over the men she chose to patronize.
By noon, Sloane had cornered me in the executive lounge. She slammed the frosted glass door shut, her face flushed with fury beneath her heavy makeup.
"You think you’re clever, don't you?" Sloane hissed, pointing a manicured red nail at my chest. "You took this position behind Daniel’s back just to humiliate him!"
"I accepted this offer five months ago, Sloane," I replied calmly, sipping my unsweetened green tea from a porcelain mug. "Long before I found out that the man I was financially supporting was using my rent money to take you to dinner at the Peninsula."
"My father can strip your department funding with a single motion at tomorrow's board meeting," Sloane threatened, stepping closer, her voice shaking with venomous entitlement. "You might have the medical credentials, Dr. Brooks, but in this hospital, the Whitaker name controls the budget. I will make sure your tenure here is a living hell until you resign."
I set my mug down on the glass conference table without making a sound. Then, I opened my leather briefcase and pulled out a thick, legal-sized manila folder, placing it deliberately between us.
"Open it," I said quietly.
Sloane hesitated, then pulled open the tab. Inside were dozens of certified bank receipts, canceled checks, and digital transfer receipts, all totaling two hundred and forty-two thousand dollars. Attached to the back were printed text messages from Daniel Pierce, sent over the last three years.
One text from six months ago read: ‘Baby, my fellowship application fees and apartment maintenance are due. If you can send another three grand this week, I swear we’ll be married by Christmas. You’re my only home, Emma.’ The date on that text matched the exact weekend Daniel had accompanied Sloane on an all-expenses-paid yacht trip to Martha’s Vineyard.
"What is this garbage?" Sloane demanded, though her voice lacked its earlier bite.
"That is evidence of grand larceny by false pretenses and systemic fraud," I stated plainly. "Under Illinois state law, inducing someone to transfer over two hundred thousand dollars under false marital promises while operating an undisclosed second domestic partnership constitutes actionable civil and criminal fraud. My attorney filed the petition in Cook County Superior Court this morning."
Sloane scoffed, though her hands were visibly trembling as she dropped the papers. "You think you can sue Daniel? He has nothing! His salary here barely covers his student debt."
"I know," I smiled softly. "Which means when the court garnishes his wages, sixty percent of his monthly attending paycheck will be automatically wired to my bank account for the next seven years. Furthermore, my lawyers have added a secondary subpoena requesting the disclosure of all financial gifts, jewelry, and luxury goods provided to him by third parties during that period."
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Sloane froze. Her eyes darted to the legal header on the summons. "You wouldn't dare drag my name into public court records."
"Try me, Sloane," I whispered, holding her gaze until she blinked and looked away. "You told me on Friday that Daniel was a ladder. Well, ladders can break. And when he falls, make sure you aren't standing underneath him."
