Chapter 3 - The Panicked Titan
At eight o'clock that morning, the sun rose over a snow-covered Manhattan, casting a hard, cold light into the penthouse at West 85th Street.
Cole Whitmore stood in his spacious kitchen, his charcoal suit jacket thrown over a dining chair, his silk tie undone. He had downed three shots of espresso, but his face was pale and streaked with sweat.
"What do you mean her cards are frozen?!" Cole roared into his phone, slamming his hand against the glass counter. "I didn't tell you to lock her out completely! I wanted her unable to book a hotel! She has my children in a snowstorm!"
"Mr. Whitmore," his head of private security, a burly ex-detective named Miller, replied over the line. "You set the automatic security protocol yourself last month. Any transaction over five hundred dollars outside your primary ZIP code triggers an immediate account hold. When she tried to use the ATM on 84th, the system flagged it."
"Then unlock it!" Cole screamed. "Find her! Check her sister in Greenwich! Check her college roommate in Park Slope! Put men on the train stations! If the press finds out my wife walked out on Christmas morning with the twins, the investors for the Riverfront Project will pull their funding by noon!"
Cole hung up the phone, breathing heavily. He paced over to the kitchen table, his eyes locking onto the small slip of paper resting beside the heavy platinum wedding ring he had picked out four years ago.
Merry Christmas, Cole. This time you won't find us. Thanks for watching.
"Thanks for watching," he muttered, his mind racing. What did that mean?
His phone buzzed on the counter. He snatched it up instantly, expecting his security team.
It was Sierra Reed.
"Cole," Sierra’s breathless, panicked voice filled the speaker. "Have you checked the news? Have you seen the online portal for the Wall Street Journal?"
Cole’s stomach dropped into a cold abyss. "What are you talking about, Sierra?"
"Go to the front page," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Now."
Cole rushed to his living room laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard. He loaded the financial news site. Resting right at the top of the national business section was a breaking news headline that sent a wave of icy terror through his chest:
WHITMORE DEVELOPMENT FACES MASSIVE COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT LAWSUIT; HUDSON GREEN ASSETS FROZEN BY FEDERAL COURT
Beneath the headline was a high-resolution photograph of the Hudson Green Complex alongside an original, hand-drafted blueprint dated 2018. The signature on the blueprint was framed in gold: Lauren Miller.
Cole’s breath hitched. "No... no, no, no. How did they get those drawings? They were locked in the vault at the firm!"
He scrolled down the article, his eyes scanning the text frantically until he reached the final paragraph:
'The legal action was filed at 6:00 AM today by the law firm of Vance & Associates on behalf of primary owner and designer Lauren Miller-Whitmore. Simultaneously, a formal petition for emergency sole custody of the Whitmore children has been granted by the New York Supreme Court, citing domestic negligence and corporate fraud.'
Cole slammed the laptop shut, sending it skidding across the hardwood floor where it smashed against the base of the Christmas tree.
"Julian Vance," Cole spat through gritted teeth, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. "He has her."
May you like
He grabbed his coat from the chair, pulled a silver 9mm handgun from his safe behind the wall art, and loaded a full magazine.
"You think you can take my family and my company, Lauren?" Cole growled to the empty apartment. "I made you. And I will burn this city to the ground before I let you walk away with my money."
