Chapter 9 - THE PRISON VISITATION
-9-
The fluorescent lights of the federal holding facility’s intake visiting room hummed with a harsh, sterile vibration. The air smelled of industrial cleaner, damp concrete, and unwashed despair.
Grant Sterling sat hunched over a bolted metal table, his hands cuffed to an iron loop in the center of the surface. He wore a coarse, orange inmate jumpsuit that hung loosely around his frame, swallowing his once-impeccable silhouette. His hair was unwashed, dark circles bruised the hollows beneath his bloodshot eyes, and the arrogant, entitled swagger that had defined his corporate existence was entirely gone, replaced by the broken, vacant stare of a man whose world had evaporated.
The heavy steel door at the end of the hall clicked open.
Grant didn't look up, assuming it was another intake officer or a public defender who had finally realized his case was legally toxic.
Then, the sharp, unmistakable click of designer heels echoed against the concrete floor.
Grant slowly raised his head.
Standing on the other side of the heavy wire-reinforced glass partition was Sloane. She wore a crisp, tailored navy blue trench coat, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, looking like she had just stepped off a magazine cover rather than walking into a federal holding pen.
Grant’s breath hitched. He scrambled up from the metal chair, dragging his cuffed hands against the table as he lunged toward the glass.
“Sloane! Sloane, thank God!” Grant choked out, his voice cracking into a desperate, pathetic whine. “You got my message! You came to get me out! Please, Sloane—it was a nightmare, they wouldn't let me call a lawyer, they seized my car, my accounts are frozen! You know I’m innocent, you know I would never—interfered with—please, drop the charges! We were married for five years!”
Sloane did not flinch. She didn't blink. She stood entirely motionless on her side of the glass, her cold, emerald eyes appraising him the way an entomologist might inspect a particularly repulsive insect pinned to a board.
She slowly lifted her left hand, letting the platinum wedding ring catch the harsh fluorescent light, before slipping it back into the pocket of her coat.
“You’re right about one thing, Grant,” Sloane said, her voice carrying clearly through the small audio speaker box embedded in the glass. “We were married for five years. Which means I spent sixty months watching you scheme, manipulate, and take credit for work you were fundamentally unqualified to execute.”
Grant swallowed hard, sweat beading along his hairline. He pressed his palms flat against the glass, tears finally spilling over his bloodshot eyes. “Sloane, please... I’ll sign whatever you want. I’ll give up all claims to the house, the car, the stock options! Just tell the DA it was a misunderstanding! I’ll go away, you’ll never see me again!”
“Oh, you’re definitely going away, Grant,” Sloane replied, a chilling, razor-sharp smile touching the corners of her lips. “The federal prosecutor’s office confirmed this morning that based on the unlisted secondary ledgers Maya and Marcus recovered from your office safe, your grand larceny and wire fraud charges carry a mandatory minimum of fifteen years without parole.”
Grant staggered backward, his knees buckling beneath him as he dropped heavily back onto the metal stool. He buried his face in his cuffed hands, letting out a long, ragged, broken sob that echoed off the concrete walls.
“And as for your little partner in crime,” Sloane continued, stepping slightly closer to the glass partition, her voice dropping into a lethal whisper. “Bianca is currently sitting in a holding cell three doors down from yours, crying her eyes out over a plea deal that guarantees she’ll spend the next five years wearing orange right alongside you.”
Grant didn't answer. He was entirely broken, a hollow shell of the man who had tried to execute a corporate coup less than forty-eight hours ago.
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Sloane turned on her heel, her tailored heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor as she walked toward the heavy steel exit door. She didn't look back. She didn't need to.
The man who had tried to build his future on the ashes of her life was safely locked away in the basement of the system he had tried to weaponize. And outside, the forty-two stories of glass and steel she had built with her own two hands stood tall against the Manhattan sky, bathed in the brilliant, unyielding light of morning.
