Chapter 4 - The Confession Room
The holding cell in the lower level of the federal courthouse downtown was windowless, smelling faintly of old bleach and stagnant despair.
Preston Sterling sat on a bolted-down steel bench, his designer suit now hopelessly wrinkled, his hair matted with sweat. The arrogant billionaire who had swaggered through country clubs and executive boardrooms was gone, replaced by a pathetic, shivering wreck of a man.
The heavy steel door rattled open.
A federal marshal stepped aside, and I walked into the interrogation room.
I didn't wear a Target cardigan today. I wore a tailored, midnight-blue maternity dress designed by Prada, paired with a custom cashmere coat and diamond-stud earrings my father had given me for my graduation years ago. My hair was swept back into a flawless French twist.
When Preston looked up and saw me standing there, health glowing in my cheeks, holding my head high with absolute royalty, he stumbled backward off the bench, scrambling onto his knees.
“Emily!” he wailed, lunging forward, though the bolted chains on his wrists stopped him short with a sharp, metallic clatter. “Em, please! You have to help me! Your father—he’s insane! He’s destroying everything! They’re saying I’m facing twenty years in federal prison! Please, talk to him! Drop the charges!”
I stopped two feet away from him, looking down as if inspecting a particularly annoying insect on the pavement.
“Twenty years?” I asked mildly. “That sounds generous. Considering you tried to lock me in a psychiatric ward to steal my child.”
“I was pressured!” Preston sobbed, tears streaming down his nose, smearing his makeup—wait, no, that was just sweat and utter panic. “Savannah... she manipulated me! She told me you were draining my accounts, she said the baby wasn't mine—she lied to me, Em!”
“Oh, really?”
A sharp click echoed from the doorway. Marcus stepped into the room, holding a small digital audio recorder. He pressed play.
A clear, crystal-recorded voice filled the tiny concrete room—Preston’s voice, recorded three nights ago in our kitchen:
“She’s a barren nobody from upstate. Once the baby is born, we’ll sign the papers, dump her in a state facility, and Savannah takes her place. Nobody will ever look twice at a crazy woman.”
Preston’s face turned the color of curdled milk. He froze, his mouth hanging open in silent horror.
“That... that was edited!” he choked out. “Deepfake! AI technology!”
“It was recorded on your own smart-home security system, Preston,” Marcus said smoothly, pocketing the recorder. “Which we legally subpoenaed at 4:00 AM. Every word, every threat, every vile scheme—stored safely in our cloud.”
I crouched down slightly, balancing carefully on my high heels, until my face was level with his terrified, sweat-streaked eyes.
“You wanted an incubator, Preston?” I whispered softly, letting every syllable drip with venom. “Well, congratulations. You built a monster instead. And now, you get to watch her consume your entire world.”
Preston let out a choked, animalistic sob, collapsing forward until his forehead hit the cold concrete floor.
May you like
I stood up straight, smoothed down my dress, and turned toward the door without looking back once.
“Sign the divorce papers by midnight, Preston,” I tossed over my shoulder. “Or my father will make sure you spend your remaining youth breaking rocks in a maximum-security quarry.”
