My husband whipped me 30 times in our cellar while our daughter celebrated upstairs—but one phone call to my three billionaire brothers turned his $900 million empire into a ticking time bomb…

Richard Whitmore sat on the thin mattress of his cell in the county detention center, his eyes staring blankly at the chipped paint on the concrete wall.

In less than two weeks, his entire world had been annihilated. His company was gone. His fortune was seized. His mistress had turned on him. His fair-weather friends in high society had erased his contact information, and his legal defense team had resigned after realizing that Nathaniel Sterling had built an airtight case that no amount of money could crack.

He was currently represented by a court-appointed public defender, a tired woman named Sarah Lin who spent less than ten minutes reviewing his files before telling him bluntly that his only hope was to plead guilty and beg the judge for mercy.

“Mercy?” Richard had snarled at her, spitting on the floor between them in the interview booth. “I am Richard Whitmore! I don't beg!”

“You’re an inmate facing two decades in maximum security, Mr. Whitmore,” Lin had replied calmly, closing her folder. “If you don't take the plea, Catherine Sterling’s legal team will ensure you die in prison. Think about it.”

Now, alone in the dark, Richard’s mind festered with toxic, irrational fury. He didn't blame himself for his cruelty, his arrogance, or his reckless embezzlement. In his twisted, narcissistic mind, everything that had happened was Catherine’s fault.

She had hidden her billionaire brothers from him. She had tricked him into underestimating her. She had humiliated him in front of his peers.

A heavy knock rattled the steel bars of his cell.

A guard slid the door open. “Whitmore. Visitor.”

Richard frowned, standing up and brushing the dust off his orange uniform. “Who is it? Bradley?”

“Not your lawyer,” the guard grunted, clasping heavy iron chains around Richard’s waist and ankles before leading him down the dim corridor to the secure non-contact visiting room.

When Richard sat down on the metal stool and looked through the thick, scratch-resistant plexiglass, he was surprised to see Frank Moretti.

Moretti was a shadowy figure from Richard’s past—a fixer who ran a private investigative firm with deep ties to the city’s criminal underworld. Over the years, Richard had used Moretti to intimidate whistleblowers, silence disgruntled employees, and bury unsavory rumors about his private life.

Richard grabbed the plastic telephone handset eagerly. “Frank! Thank God. Did you get my message? Why haven't you answered my calls?”

Moretti looked at Richard with cold, dispassionate eyes. He picked up his handset. “Your accounts are frozen, Richard. I don't work for free. The only reason I’m sitting here is because you claimed you had an emergency stash of bearer bonds in an off-grid safety deposit box.”

“I do!” Richard hissed, pressing his face against the glass. “Five million dollars in untraceable bearer bonds in a private vault in upstate New York. The key is hidden in the lining of my leather luggage at my country club locker. It’s all yours, Frank. Every single cent.”

Moretti raised an eyebrow, interested. “And what exactly do you expect me to do for five million dollars?”

Richard leaned closer, his eyes burning with an unhinged, feral madness. “I’m not surviving twenty years in prison. The bail bondsman said if I can produce an alternative collateral guarantee through an offshore third party, I can get temporary medical furlough before the formal trial begins next Tuesday.”

“And then what?” Moretti asked quietly.

“I need you to get me out of the country,” Richard whispered. “A private charter from a rural airstrip into South America. But before I leave…” Richard’s teeth clicked together in venomous rage. “I need Catherine to pay.”

Moretti frowned. “The Sterling family has private security teams that would make the Secret Service look like amateur night. You can’t touch her.”

“I don't need to touch her,” Richard growled, a hideous sneer twisting his face. “I just need Lily. If you grab the girl, Catherine will do whatever I say. She’ll drop the charges. She’ll wire fifty million dollars to a Swiss account. She’ll beg me on her knees.”

Moretti stared at Richard for a long, silent moment. “You want me to kidnap William Sterling’s granddaughter?”

“Five million dollars, Frank!” Richard pleaded, banging his chained fist against the counter. “Five million in bonds today, and another ten million from the ransom! You’ll be set for life!”

Moretti slowly placed the telephone receiver back on its cradle. He stood up, adjusted his dark overcoat, and looked down at Richard through the glass with an expression that Richard couldn't quite decipher.

It wasn't fear. It wasn't greed.

It was absolute pity.

Moretti turned and walked toward the exit.

“Frank! Frank, pick up the phone!” Richard screamed, thrashing against his chains as the guards seized his arms. “Do we have a deal or not? Frank!”