Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Penthouse and the Trembling Throne
By two o’clock that afternoon, Courtroom 4B had been temporarily adjourned until nine the following morning. Judge Vance had issued an immediate emergency injunction, freezing every domestic bank account, brokerage portfolio, and corporate credit line associated with Jason Mitchell and Mitchell Medical Technologies.
Furthermore, she had ordered Jason and Madison to surrender their passports to the court clerk within two hours.
The media storm outside the Cook County Courthouse was catastrophic.
As Jason and Madison tried to push through the glass doors, they were met with an absolute wall of flashing cameras, television broadcast vans, and dozens of reporters shouting over one another.
"Mr. Mitchell! Did you forge your wife's signature on the Stent-X9 patents?"
"Jason! Is it true the SEC is investigating your Cayman offshore accounts?"
"Madison! Are you facing federal charges for money laundering?"
Jason shoved past a cameraman, his face twisted in a mask of pure fury. "Get those cameras out of my face! No comment! Sterling, clear these people out!"
They barely made it into the back of his black Maybach before the reporters surrounded the vehicle, slamming microphones against the tinted windows.
Inside the luxury penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan—a twenty-two-million-dollar triplex that Jason had bragged was the crown jewel of his real estate empire—the atmosphere was suffocating.
Madison threw her handbag across the white Italian marble kitchen island, shattering an antique crystal vase.
"You lied to me!" Madison screamed, her voice shrill with hysteria. "You told me she was a charity case! You told me she was a pathetic, broken woman who survived on your generosity! You didn't tell me she was the one who built the company! You didn't tell me the feds were waiting for us!"
Jason poured himself four fingers of single-malt scotch, his hand shaking so violently the amber liquid splashed over the counter.
"Shut your mouth, Madison," he barked, his voice ragged. "I didn't bring you into my life to hear you scream. Sterling is handling it. We have the best defense attorneys in the country. Judges can be bought, politicians can be influenced, and Daniel Brooks is just a glorified ambulance chaser."
"They took my passport, Jason!" Madison yelled, stepping right up to him, her face flushed red. "The FBI was standing in that courtroom! Do you know what happens to people who get indicted for federal money laundering? They don't send you to some luxury retreat! They send you to a federal penitentiary! I am twenty-six years old! I am not going to prison for your fraud!"
Jason slammed his glass down so hard the base cracked.
He grabbed Madison by the shoulders, shoving her back against the marble counter with the same cold, dead look he had given me seven years ago.
"Listen to me very carefully," Jason whispered, his voice dangerously low. "Everything you have—the jewelry, the clothes, the apartment in Manhattan, the five-hundred-thousand-dollar allowance—comes from my accounts. You signed the paperwork for Aegis Holdings. If I go down, you go down with me. You're an accomplice to grand larceny and tax evasion. So pull yourself together, wipe your face, and let me figure out how to handle Iris."
Madison stared at him, her eyes wide with sudden terror. For the first time, she wasn't looking at a wealthy, handsome billionaire who spoiled her with private jets. She was looking at a sociopath whose house of cards was collapsing in real-time.
"How are you going to handle her?" Madison asked, her voice trembling. "She showed her scars to the whole world, Jason. The entire internet is calling you a monster. Look at Twitter! Look at the news!"
Jason turned away from her, pulling his smartphone from his pocket.
The headlines were everywhere:
THE SCARS OF GREED: BILLIONAIRE TECH CEO ACCUSED OF BURNING WIFE TO STEAL MULTI-BILLION DOLLAR PATENTS.
MITCHELL MEDICAL STOCK CRASHES 38% IN AFTER-HOURS TRADING.
FEDERAL PROSECUTORS OPEN CRIMINAL PROBE INTO JASON MITCHELL.
Jason scrolled through the catastrophic numbers. The board of directors had already called five emergency meetings without him. The institutional shareholders were dumping their stock by the millions.
Jason’s eyes darkened. He tapped a private contact in his phone—a number that had no name attached to it.
He walked into his private study, closing the heavy soundproof doors behind him.
He pressed the phone to his ear.
"It's me," Jason said quietly. "We have a massive problem. The contingency plan needs to be activated tonight. Iris cannot be allowed to walk into that courtroom tomorrow morning."
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On the other end of the line, a rough, gravelly voice answered: "It’ll cost five times the usual rate, Mitchell. The feds are watching her."
"I don't care what it costs," Jason snarled. "Make it look like a suicide. Make it look like she couldn't handle the pressure of the trial. Just make sure she's gone."
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