Chapter 6 - The Exit Strategy
The arrest was conducted with the quiet, devastating efficiency of men who had done this a hundred times before. There was no shouting match, no dramatic struggle on the Persian rugs of Holloway Hill. Richard Sr. was led out through the grand double doors with his hands cuffed behind his gray wool suit jacket, his dignity stripped away by the very bureaucracy he had spent thirty years trying to outmaneuver.
Douglas followed five minutes later, his designer sweater looking suddenly pathetic against the dark federal windbreakers of the agents who flanked him. As they passed her in the foyer, Douglas stopped, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate.
"Simone," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Please. We can fix this. We're married. You can't testify against me—"
"Spousal privilege doesn't cover financial crimes committed against joint marital assets, Douglas," Simone replied, her voice completely steady. "And as of twenty minutes ago, my lawyer filed the emergency petition for dissolution of marriage, complete with full attachment of all remaining personal assets to satisfy the civil recovery judgment for my stolen business capital."
He stared at her, the realization finally breaking over him like a tidal wave: the woman he thought he could discard, humiliate, and reduce to a domestic servant had been the only thing keeping his entire world from collapsing. And she had engineered his ruin with the same meticulous precision she brought to every multi-course meal she ever served.
When the heavy oak doors finally closed behind them, the silence in the foyer was absolute.
Nineteen members of the Reeves family stood scattered around the grand house, stripped of their patriarch, their financial security, and their social impunity. Patricia Reeves sat alone at the edge of the ruined dining table, staring blindly at the spilled red wine on the white cloth, her pearl earrings looking suddenly fake under the harsh glare of the chandelier.
Simone didn't gloat. She didn't offer comfort, and she didn't demand an apology. She simply walked back into the kitchen, picked up her canvas tote bag, and zipped it shut.
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"Are you finished here, Ms. Whitfield?" Marcus Vance asked, stepping through the swinging doors with his briefcase in hand.
"Completely," Simone said, slinging the strap over her shoulder. "Let's go home."
