Chapter 5 - The Trap Closes
Victoria pushed past my father's guards, her face flushed with rage as she tried to put herself between her son and the cameras. ""You ungrateful little girl!"" she hissed, pointing a manicured finger directly at my nose. ""Nathan gave you status! He brought you into our circle! My family has been royalty in this city for four generations! You are nothing but new money with a chip on your shoulder!""
""Your family's royalty is completely bankrupt, Victoria,"" I replied without raising my voice.
I reached into my binder, pulled out a separate folder printed on bright yellow paper, and handed it directly to her.
""What is this trash?"" she scoffed, refusing to look at it.
""That is the foreclosure notice on your estate in the Hamptons,"" I said, making sure my voice carried across the silent pews. ""Along with the seizure orders for the family yacht and the private jet. Nathan leveraged your personal assets six months ago to secure a twenty-million-dollar bridge loan. He signed the guarantees under your power of attorney, which you willingly gave him last Christmas. You don't own that mansion anymore, Victoria. The bank takes possession on the first of next month.""
Victoria’s hand began to shake violently. She snatched the paper, her eyes skimming the certified bank headers and her son's unmistakable signature on the transfer deeds. The color drained from her cheeks until she looked like a ghost draped in couture silk. She turned slowly to look at her son, her mouth hanging open. ""Nathan... tell me this isn't real. Tell me you didn't touch the Hamptons house.""
Nathan couldn't look her in the eye. He stared at the floor, sweat beading heavily along his hairline, dripping down his collar. ""Mom, I was going to buy it back... the trust fund was supposed to cover everything today...""
""You stole from your own mother?"" she whispered, stumbling back against the communion rail.
""He stole from everyone, Victoria,"" a deep voice boomed from the back of the cathedral.
The heavy wooden entrance doors were pushed open completely, flooding the dim sanctuary with bright midday sunlight. A dozen uniformed federal agents, flanked by state police officers and two district prosecutors, marched down the main aisle in double time. The lead agent held a thick manila folder and a pair of steel handcuffs.
""Nathaniel Whitmore,"" the lead agent announced, flashing an FBI badge that silenced any lingering murmurs in the room. ""Step away from the altar and put your hands behind your back.""
Nathan took a panicked step toward the private exit behind the pulpit, but two officers had already entered through the vestry doors, cutting off his escape route entirely.
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""On what grounds?"" Nathan shrieked, his voice cracking into a high-pitched squeak. ""You can't arrest me at my own wedding! On what possible charges?""
The lead prosecutor, a sharp-eyed woman with silver hair, stepped forward. ""Conspiracy to commit securities fraud, multiple counts of wire fraud, grand larceny, identity theft, and aggravated domestic battery."" She looked at me and gave a brief, respectful nod. ""Thanks to the encrypted evidence package delivered to our field office two hours ago, a federal judge signed your warrants before you even finished tying your bow tie.""
