Chapter 3 - The Audit of the DamnedThe federal marshals didn't leave, and neither did Thomas Vance. Within twenty minutes, the sprawling Morrison estate—a monument to three generations of inherited wealth and reckless corporate overreach—felt less like a home and more like a crime scene.
Or rather, a foreclosure.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the flashing red and blue lights of local sheriff cruisers began to pool against the manicured boxwood hedges as Vanguard's forensic accounting team arrived in black utility vans, carrying encrypted servers and legal requisition warrants authorized by a federal judge in Manhattan within ten minutes of my phone call.
Diane had collapsed onto an ivory velvet settee in the formal sitting room, clutching a silver smelling salt container while her breathing came in ragged, shallow gasps. Jessica had locked herself in the powder room down the hall, presumably frantically trying to delete text messages from her phone before her own family’s social standing imploded by association.
Brendan sat slumped in a high-backed armchair across from me, his hands clasped tightly between his knees, staring at the floor with a hollow, vacant expression.
I sat comfortably at the head of the long oak library table, having changed into a dry, cashmere lounge set that one of the female security operatives had retrieved from my overnight bag in the car. A steaming mug of ginger tea rested between my hands.
"Cassidy," Brendan whispered, his voice cracking like dry wood. He didn't look up. "Please. I’m begging you. If you destroy Morrison Industries, my father... my father won't survive it. His heart is weak. He built this company from the ground up."
"Your grandfather built it, Brendan," I corrected him calmly, taking a slow sip of my tea. "Your father inherited it, leveraged it to fund his mistresses, and spent the last decade cooking the logistics reports to hide a seventy-million-dollar deficit from Vanguard auditors."
Brendan snapped his head up, his eyes wide with shock. "How... how could you possibly know about the deficit?"
"I own the forensic algorithms that flagged your father’s shell companies in the Cayman Islands six months ago," I replied evenly. "I knew about the fraud before we even filed for divorce. I simply let you hang yourselves by your own financial rope, hoping that someday, somewhere beneath all that inherited arrogance, you might actually develop a conscience."
I set the mug down, the porcelain making a soft, crisp sound against the wood.
"Instead, you chose to treat me like trash while I was carrying your child. You let your mother humiliate me in my own home—a home, by the way, which is also registered under the Sterling Family Trust."
The color drained from Brendan’s face entirely. "This... this house is yours too?"
"Every square inch," I said. "And as of midnight tonight, the eviction notice for you, your mother, and your little blonde girlfriend will be served by the county sheriff."
Before Brendan could form a coherent reply, the library door pushed open. Arthur Vance—EVP of Legal, silver-haired, impeccably tailored, and carrying a stack of thick red-labeled files—stepped into the room.
"Madame Sterling," Arthur said, nodding respectfully in my direction before glancing down at Brendan with undisguised disdain. "The preliminary asset sweep is complete. We’ve seized all corporate accounts, frozen the trust funds controlled by Richard Morrison Sr., and intercepted three container ships currently docked in Newark carrying unmanifested inventory tied to their offshore accounts."
"And the family personal accounts?" I asked.
" Completely locked," Arthur replied crisply, flipping open the top folder. "Every luxury vehicle registered under Morrison corporate entities—including your ex-husband’s Aston Martin—is currently being repossessed from the driveway. Furthermore, federal investigators have found sufficient evidence of interstate wire fraud and tax evasion to issue immediate warrants for Richard Morrison Sr. and corporate treasurer Marcus Vance."
Brendan stood up so fast his chair tipped over backward for the second time that evening.
"You can't do this!" he screamed, his voice cracking with hysteria as he lunged toward Arthur. "You’re destroying a dynasty! We’re the Morrisons! We own half of Westchester!"
Arthur didn't even flinch. He simply raised one eyebrow, looking at Brendan as if he were a particularly annoying insect buzzing near his ear.
"Mr. Morrison," Arthur said in a tone of absolute, chilling professional detachment, "dynasties are built on integrity, vision, and respect for the law. What your family built was a Ponzi scheme wrapped in bad manners. Madame Sterling gave you every opportunity to walk away with your dignity and a generous divorce settlement. You chose cruelty instead."
Brendan slowly turned around, his shoulders shaking, and looked at me. The fury in his eyes had completely dissolved, replaced by a pathetic, whimpering desperation.
"Cassidy..." he choked out, taking a slow, trembling step toward me, dropping heavily onto both knees on the Persian rug—the very same rug where my bathwater had dripped an hour earlier. "Please. We have a baby coming. Don't do this to our family. Let's start over. I'll be a good husband. I swear to God, I'll never look at another woman. I'll worship the ground you walk on."
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I looked down at the man who had watched me shiver in the cold water, who had laughed while his mother degraded me, who had treated my pregnancy like an inconvenience to be managed.
"Get off my floor, Brendan," I said quietly. "You’re getting it dirty."
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