Chapter 4 - The Arrest and the Media Storm
By 2:00 PM, the security footage from St. Catherine’s Medical Center had mysteriously leaked to every major news outlet in Texas.
It wasn't a grainy, low-quality video. It was crisp, high-definition footage with crystal-clear audio.
The video captured everything: Emily Hartwell sitting on the floor in her blue maternity dress; Savannah Reed sneering and kicking her in the ribs; Preston Hartwell standing by with his hands in his pockets, telling his eight-month pregnant wife not to "make a scene"; and finally, Director Arthur Vance stepping out of the executive suite and bringing the young billionaire to his knees with a single sentence.
By 3:00 PM, the video had been viewed over forty million times across social media.
The headline on the Dallas Morning News read: "TEXAS BILLIONAIRE WATCHES MISTRESS ASSAULT PREGNANT WIFE IN HOSPITAL HALLWAY—VICTIM REVEALED AS VANCE HEIRESS."
Below the headline was a mugshot of Savannah Reed. She was crying, her blonde hair matted, wearing a gray county jail jumpsuit instead of her white designer coat. She had been processed at the Lew Sterrett Justice Center and denied bail by a magistrate judge due to the severity of the charges and flight risk.
Beside her mugshot was a photo of Preston Hartwell being escorted out of St. Catherine’s in handcuffs by two Dallas police officers, flanked by a barrage of flashing news cameras.
In the presidential suite of the hospital, I sat in bed watching the news broadcast on the wall-mounted television screen.
My phone, which had been silent for months, was blowing up with hundreds of missed calls and text messages from high-society women who had ignored me for a year, former board members of Preston’s company, and old acquaintances trying to apologize.
I ignored all of them.
A knock sounded at the door, and Uncle Arthur walked in, accompanied by a tall woman in a dark gray pantsuit with short, sharp black hair.
"Emily," Arthur said, "this is Eleanor Vance-Cross. She is the head of our global legal counsel."
Eleanor stepped forward, setting a sleek leather briefcase on the bedside table. "Mrs. Hartwell—or rather, Miss Vance—it is an honor to finally meet you. I have already drafted the emergency divorce petition."
"How fast can it be finalized?" I asked, looking up from my phone.
"In the state of Texas, divorces usually require a sixty-day waiting period," Eleanor explained, a sharp, icy smile touching her lips. "However, given the overwhelming evidence of severe domestic cruelty, physical assault, and financial abandonment during pregnancy, we have petitioned the High Court for an expedited emergency dissolution. Furthermore, we have filed for full, sole legal and physical custody of your unborn daughter, with zero visitation rights for Preston Hartwell."
"He will fight the custody," I murmured, knowing Preston's insane pride. "He’ll claim he has a right to his heir."
"He won't have the funds to fight a speeding ticket by Friday," Eleanor replied smoothly, opening her briefcase and pulling out a thick sheaf of legal documents. "Your husband’s firm was in the middle of closing a two-hundred-million-dollar acquisition of a technology firm in Austin. To fund it, he leveraged eighty percent of his personal stock as collateral with Texas Commerce Bank."
She tapped a page. "When your uncle withdrew the Vance Trust’s backing this morning, the bank panicked. They called in the loan. Preston’s stock is in a freefall. Hartwell Enterprises has lost sixty percent of its market valuation in four hours."
Just then, the room phone on the nightstand rang.
May you like
Arthur picked it up, listened for three seconds, and handed it to me. "It’s Preston’s lawyer. Preston is calling from the precinct holding cell."
I took the receiver and placed it against my ear. "Hello, Preston."
