Chapter 6 - The Visitor in the Cold Room
The harsh fluorescent lights of the federal visiting room hummed with a low, miserable vibration. Ethan Whitmore sat behind the scratched plexiglass divider, staring at his hands. The coarse orange jumpsuit felt heavy and abrasive against skin that was once pampered by bespoke Italian wool. Six months of prison food, concrete walls, and endless humiliation had aged him a decade. His hair was completely graying at the temples, and the arrogant spark in his eyes had been replaced by a hollow, desperate panic.
When the heavy metal door clicked open and the guard escorted his visitor in, Ethan’s head snapped up.
Standing on the other side of the partition was not a lawyer, nor a distant acquaintance. It was me.
I wore a sharply tailored charcoal pantsuit, oversized designer sunglasses pushed up onto my head, and an expression of absolute, serene detachment. I looked like a woman stepping out of a private jet in Paris, completely detached from the squalor of a medium-security federal holding facility.
Ethan scrambled forward, his chair screeching against the linoleum floor. He snatched up the heavy plastic telephone receiver with trembling fingers. I slowly picked up mine, keeping a safe, untouchable distance.
"Claire..." Ethan breathed out, his voice cracking with a pathetic mixture of hope and disbelief. "Claire, thank God. You came. You... you got my letters, right? Look, I know things got out of hand. I know I made mistakes with Vanessa, but this place... this is hell, Claire. You have to use your influence. Talk to Victoria. Tell the board to drop the secondary federal charges. We can fix this. We can go back to Beverly Hills, just you and me—"
I didn't blink. I didn't let a single emotion ripple across my face. I simply stared at him as if he were a particularly repulsive insect crawling across a pristine white table.
"Go back to Beverly Hills, Ethan?" I interrupted, my voice cool, measured, and low enough that only he could hear through the speaker. "With whose money? Using whose garage? The mansion was liquidated three months ago to pay off a fraction of the corporate tax penalties you incurred. Your matte-black Aston Martin was sold at a police auction. You don't have a home, Ethan. You don't have a company. You don't even have a reputation."
Ethan’s face contorted, a flash of his old, ugly temper sparking beneath the surface. "I built Whitmore Global! You were just a shadow in the background! You couldn't have run a lemonade stand without me!"
"Is that why the board voted unanimously to strip you of every single share?" I replied, tilting my head with a faint, chilling smile. "Is that why the federal judge didn't add a single day of leniency to your sentence? Ethan, you were never the architect. You were the figurehead. And a very expensive, very incompetent one at that."
He slammed his fist against the plexiglass, causing the guard by the door to instantly put his hand on his baton. "You planned this! You knew about Vanessa all along!"
May you like
"I knew you were arrogant enough to think you could outsmart the person who held the actual keys to your kingdom," I said softly, standing up and smoothing down the front of my jacket. "Enjoy your stay, Ethan. Consider it an extended retreat to reflect on your choices. You’ll never see another cent of my money, and by the time you walk out of these gates years from now, my name will be the only thing left of the empire you tried to destroy."
I hung up the phone, turned on my heel, and walked out of the visiting room without looking back once.
