“He won’t be liquidating anything,” Victoria whispered. “Two hours ago, while my daughter was bleeding on an operating table, my holding firm aggressively acquired a sixty percent, majority controlling stake in the brokerage where Mark works. As of midnight tonight, I am officially his employer. And I have permanently frozen all of his corporate assets.”
Back at the downtown lounge, the music was thumping. Mark laughed loudly at a joke Chloe made. He pulled out his sleek, platinum credit card and lazily tossed it onto the small black tray the waiter had provided for their two-hundred-dollar bar tab.
He took another sip of his martini, completely, blissfully oblivious to the fact that the bright, violent red “DECLINED: FEDERAL FRAUD SEIZURE” message currently flashing on the bartender’s point-of-sale screen was the exact, precise moment his life officially, permanently ended.
Chapter 4: The Wilting Daisies
The next afternoon, the Los Angeles sun was blindingly bright, mocking the dark, catastrophic ruin that was about to unfold inside the hospital.
Mark strolled confidently off the elevator onto the fourth floor of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. He was wearing clean, pressed clothes, projecting the aura of a concerned, dutiful husband. In his right hand, he held a cheap, ten-dollar bouquet of wilted bodega daisies wrapped in plastic.
He was mildly annoyed. His credit cards had mysteriously declined at the bar last night, forcing Chloe to pay with cash, and his corporate login for work wasn’t functioning this morning. He assumed it was a bank glitch. He was entirely unprepared for the reality that he had been systematically erased from the financial system.
He assumed he was walking into a standard recovery room to gaslight a weak, compliant, and exhausted wife into forgiving his “moment of panic.”
He checked the room number on his phone: Suite 402.
Mark turned the corner and confidently approached the heavy wooden door.
He didn’t make it to the handle.
Two massive, broad-shouldered men wearing dark tactical suits and discreet earpieces stepped smoothly and aggressively directly into his path. They didn’t speak. They simply crossed their arms, their hands resting dangerously close to the concealed holsters at their hips, forming an impenetrable, physical wall of muscle and steel.
Mark stopped, frowning in confusion and immediate irritation. His arrogance flared.
“Excuse me,” Mark demanded, puffing out his chest, attempting to physically intimidate men twice his size. “My wife, Elena Vance, is in that room. Move out of the way.”
