Chapter 8 - The Cornered Rat
The sight of the gold FBI badges and the unholstered sidearms broke whatever remaining sanity Adrian possessed.
He froze, his hands hovering over the table, his chest heaving like a trapped animal in a pen. Elena Rostova immediately threw her hands into the air, turning completely sideways in her chair.
“I had nothing to do with the trust forged documents!” Elena shouted, her voice shrill with terror. “He told me the trust was already transferred! He told me his wife was a silent partner who agreed to the overseas licensing! I’m just an independent corporate advisor!”
“Elena, you lying bitch!” Adrian screamed, whipping his head toward her. “You set up the Cayman accounts! You drafted the shell registration!”
“Shut up, Adrian!” she shrieked. “I’m not going down for your amateur fraud!”
“Both of you, remain silent,” Agent Miller commanded, her partner stepping swiftly around the table, his handcuffs clicking open with a sharp, terrifying precision. “Adrian Hale, you are under arrest for federal wire fraud, aggravated identity theft, and interstate transportation of stolen securities.”
As the cold steel snapped around Adrian’s left wrist, he violently twisted his body, trying to pull away. “Wait! Wait! Claire, look at me! Claire, tell them to stop! We’re married! You can't testify against your husband! Spousal privilege!”
Sarah Lin offered a thin, predatory smile from the other side of the table. “Spousal privilege does not apply to crimes committed by one spouse directly against the person or property of the other spouse, Adrian. Did you really think you could rob her blind and then hide behind the marriage certificate you violated?”
The second cuff snapped shut around his right wrist with a heavy, final *click*.
The dining room had gone dead silent except for Adrian’s ragged, terrified gasps. The waiter who had been standing near the sideboard holding the bottle of Screaming Eagle Cabernet was frozen in place, his mouth slightly open, holding the silver wine bucket.
Adrian was pulled roughly to his feet by the two federal agents. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his tie askew, the pristine arrogance of his charcoal suit completely destroyed.
He looked at me, his eyes wide and wild, searching for a trace of the woman who had spent four years putting his needs before her own, the woman who had forgiven his broken promises, his endless debts, and his casual cruelties.
“Claire,” he begged, his voice dropping into a high, pathetic whine. “Claire, please. Think about what this will do to my family. Think about my mother. This will kill her! You loved me. You swore you loved me in sickness and in health!”
I stood up slowly, planting both feet firmly on the floor. I didn't look away from him.
“I did swear that, Adrian,” I said, my voice steady, clear, and quiet enough that everyone in the room had to lean forward to hear it. “I meant every word of it when I was lying in that surgical ward with my spine stitched together, waiting for my husband to walk through the door. But you weren't in sickness with me. You were on a rooftop, drinking champagne, measuring me for a coffin.”
I looked down at the white bakery box from the Peninsula that Vanessa had placed near the center of the table—the leftover cake she had brought as a peace offering three days ago.
I picked up the box, walked two steps toward him, and dropped it into his cuffed hands.
“Take your cake, Adrian,” I said. “You’re going to be very hungry where you’re going.”
His face contorted in a mixture of humiliation and sheer, impotent hatred. “I’ll fight this! I’ll take every cent of your grandmother’s money in the divorce! You’ll spend the rest of your life paying legal fees to keep your patents!”
“Mr. Hale,” Assistant US Attorney Marcus Wright stepped forward from the doorway, flashing his Department of Justice credentials. “Given the flight manifests to Dubai and the offshore accounts we froze thirty minutes ago, the government will be seeking pre-trial detention without bail at your arraignment tomorrow morning. You won't be paying divorce lawyers, Mr. Hale. You’ll be lucky if you can afford a public defender.”
Agent Miller took Adrian by the arm and shoved him toward the service exit. “Move.”
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Elena Rostova sat trembling in her chair as two other agents approached her with a federal grand jury subpoena. She covered her face with her hands, weeping in silence as the mahogany doors swung shut behind Adrian’s dragging feet.
***
