Chapter 4 - The Nine O’Clock Execution
The morning sun filtered through the horizontal blinds of Room 412, striping the white linoleum floor with harsh bars of golden light. The digital clock on the wall glowed bright red: **8:58 AM.**
Brooke sat upright in the adjustable hospital bed, her hair neatly brushed, wearing a crisp cashmere robe over her hospital gown. The exhaustion from the grueling night of labor had vanished, replaced by an incandescent, razor-sharp adrenaline. In the corner of the room, sitting quietly in a high-backed armchair, was Marcus Vance with his leather briefcase open across his knees. Walter Prescott stood near the window, his arms crossed over his chest, staring down at the street below with the terrifying stillness of a statue carved from granite.
Outside the door, muffled by heavy soundproof insulation, came the confident, familiar click of expensive leather shoes striding down the hallway.
*Clack. Clack. Clack.*
Garrett Hale was right on time.
At precisely **9:00 AM**, the door swung open without a knock. Garrett stepped into the room, impeccably dressed in a charcoal Italian wool suit, his silver-framed aviators tucked into his breast pocket, an expression of supreme, unbothered arrogance stamped across his handsome face. He held a leather folio under one arm and a fresh envelope in his hand.
“Brooke, I hope you’ve had time to—hzzt—” Garrett started, his voice cutting off abruptly as he took two steps into the room and finally processed the environment.
His eyes darted from the tall, imposing figure of Walter Prescott standing by the window to Marcus Vance sitting calmly by the desk, and finally landed on Brooke, whose gaze pierced him like a frozen dagger.
Garrett’s jaw slackened. The color drained from his face so fast his skin took on a sickly, greenish hue. He took an involuntary step backward, his hand fumbling against the doorframe.
“W-Walter?” Garrett stammered, his polished corporate confidence evaporating in a fraction of a second. “Mr. Prescott? What... what are you doing here? I didn’t know you were in Seattle—”
“You didn’t know a lot of things, Garrett,” Walter Prescott said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated through the quiet room. He didn’t turn away from the window; he simply rotated his head slowly, fixing his ice-blue eyes on his son-in-law. “For instance, you didn’t know that the woman you married, belittled, and tried to bully into signing away her parental rights is my only daughter.”
Garrett’s knees seemed to buckle slightly. He looked wildly from Walter to Brooke, his brain desperately trying to connect the dots of a nightmare he never anticipated. “Brooke’s... your daughter? But her last name is Hale—well, maiden name was... wait. You’re Walter Prescott? The owner of Pacific Harbor Freight?”
“The very same company where you managed to climb to Vice President of Sales by stepping on everyone in your path,” Marcus Vance chimed in smoothly, standing up from his chair and snapping his leather briefcase shut with a sharp *clack*. Vance walked forward, stopping just three feet from Garrett, and dropped a thick stack of printed financial documents onto the rolling hospital tray right where the $250,000 check had rested yesterday.
Garrett stared at the papers, his throat dry, unable to speak.
“Let’s review your morning agenda, Garrett,” Marcus said, his tone dripping with professional mockery. “Item one: You attempted to coerce a postpartum mother under heavy medication to sign away her custody rights. Item two: You orchestrated an illicit relationship with Kendra Mercer, utilizing corporate assets to fund her lifestyle. And item three—most importantly—you embezzled one hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars of Pacific Harbor Freight capital to pay Beacon Communications for corporate cover-ups.”
Garrett raised a trembling hand, panic finally breaking through his arrogant facade. “This... this is a misunderstanding! I can explain! It was a corporate restructuring loan—!”
“It was grand larceny,” Walter Prescott interrupted, his voice dropping an octave as he turned away from the window and walked slowly toward Garrett. Every step the billionaire took was a physical weight pressing Garrett back against the locked door. “You stole from my company. You abused my daughter. And worst of all, you walked into this hospital room and tried to throw pocket change at my grandchildren.”
Garrett looked frantically at Brooke, his eyes wide with terror, his voice cracking into a desperate plea. “Brooke! Please! We’ve been married for six years! Think of our history! Tell your father to stop this—we can work this out, just you and me—”
Brooke looked at him the way a scientist looks at a specimen under a microscope—with clinical detachment and absolute disgust.
“Our history, Garrett?” Brooke said, her voice cutting through the sterile air like a scalpel. “You told me my career was a burden. You told me my daughter would never carry your last name. Well, you got your wish. She won't carry your last name ever again. Because as of five minutes ago, my lawyers filed an emergency petition for sole custody, full asset forfeiture, and criminal prosecution for corporate embezzlement.”
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Marcus Vance opened a second folder, holding a sleek digital pen out toward Garrett. “Sign the divorce papers relinquishing all parental rights and any claim to Prescott assets, Garrett. Your signature here, or you spend the next ten to fifteen years sharing a cell with federal tax evaders. Choose wisely.”
***
