Chapter 4 - The Mistress’s AwakeningWhile Ethan was learning the harsh realities of federal holding cells, Miranda Chun was discovering that being a billionaire’s mistress only works when the billionaire actually has money.
She was sitting in the VIP lounge of the Carlyle Hotel, sipping a glass of Dom Pérignon and waiting for Ethan to call her with news of his successful IPO, when three men in dark suits stepped out of the private elevator and walked straight toward her table.
One of them flashed a gold badge bearing the seal of the United States Department of Treasury.
“Miss Miranda Chun?” the lead agent asked, his voice flat and professional.
Miranda blinked, setting her champagne flute down with a nervous laugh. “Yes? Can I help you? I’m waiting for my fiancé—”
“You aren't waiting for anyone anymore, Miss Chun,” the agent interrupted, stepping forward and placing a pair of heavy steel handcuffs onto the mahogany table. “You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit wire fraud, money laundering, and receipt of stolen corporate assets.”
Miranda’s face drained of color. “Are you out of your mind?! Do you know who I am?! My fiancé is Ethan Caldwell! He’s CEO of Caldwell Technologies! He’s worth billions!”
“Your fiancé’s company was seized by federal regulators four hours ago,” the second agent said smoothly, taking her arms and pulling her wrists behind her back as the cold steel clicked shut. “And your personal bank accounts—including the four million-dollar wire transfer executed from Caldwell Technologies’ reserve fund yesterday afternoon—have been frozen under federal asset forfeiture laws.”
“No!” Miranda shrieked, struggling against the agents as several wealthy hotel guests turned to stare in horror. “This is a mistake! Ethan! Call Ethan! He told me he’d take care of everything!”
“Mr. Caldwell is currently resting in a holding cell two blocks from here,” the agent replied dryly, guiding her toward the private elevator. “You two can compare notes during your joint arraignment on Monday.”
As Miranda was hauled out through the service lobby of the Carlyle, her six-thousand-dollar Christian Louboutin heels clicking pathetically against the concrete, her designer handbag was searched by an agent, who pulled out a familiar velvet jewelry box.
Inside sat the sixty-thousand-dollar Cartier diamond necklace Ethan had bought her using corporate funds.
The box was confiscated, tagged as evidence item number 42, and tossed into a brown paper bag.
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By evening, Miranda’s Instagram account—previously filled with private jet selfies, luxury yacht weekends in Monaco, and smug captions about being a “boss lady”—had been quietly deleted. Her apartment lease, paid for by one of Ethan’s corporate dummy accounts, was terminated by the landlord due to non-payment.
By nightfall, the woman who had smirked at me across the stage in the Plaza ballroom was sleeping on a thin plastic mattress in a holding facility in Queens, wearing an orange jumpsuit that clashed violently with her spray tan.
