Chapter 6 - The Revenge PlotZ
Two weeks passed. The dust over the destroyed wedding had finally settled in the public eye, though the gossip through Denver’s high-society circles was still white-hot.
I had successfully closed on my Cherry Creek duplex, securing the investment property under my corporate entity without a single hitch. The Velvet Lounge had been officially rebranded under new management, generating a staggering twenty-two thousand dollars in clean net profit during its first weekend relaunch alone.
I was sitting in the home office of my downtown condo at 9:00 PM, sipping chamomile tea and reviewing the monthly balance sheets, when my phone vibrated on the desk. It was an unknown number with a local 303 area code.
I answered it, placing it on speaker. “Claire Sterling.”
Silence hung on the line for three long seconds. Then came the sound of ragged, heavy breathing, followed by the slurred, raspy voice of Ethan Mercer.
“You think you’re so smart, don't you, Claire?”
I felt a cold drop in my stomach, but I kept my tone entirely unbothered. “Ethan. You are violating the legal cease-and-desist order. This call is being recorded.”
“Record it! Go ahead and record it!” Ethan barked, letting out a wild, unhinged laugh that reeked of cheap whiskey over the receiver. “What are you going to do? Sue me? Take my car? Take my business? You already took everything, you ruthless, cold-hearted monster! I have zero dollars in my checking account! My mother is living in a basement studio in Englewood! I am sleeping on an air mattress in my buddy’s garage!”
“You brought every single bit of that upon yourself when you chose to commit fraud, Ethan,” I said sharply. “Hang up the phone before I call the police.”
“Listen to me, Claire!” he roared, his voice cracking with unbridled fury. “You ruined my life! You stripped me of my dignity, my business, my future! You turned Julianna against me! You sat there in your multimillion-dollar penthouse with your fancy tea and your perfect life and you crushed me like a bug because your precious little pride was hurt!”
“You stole two hundred thousand dollars in my name,” I reminded him coldly. “You didn't break my heart, Ethan. You attempted a robbery. There is a very big difference.”
“You haven't won,” Ethan sneered, his voice suddenly dropping to a sickening, low whisper that sent a shudder down my spine. “You think you closed the book on this? You think you get to just move on and buy your duplexes and run my lounge with my ex-mistress? Check your business email, Claire. Check what I just uploaded to the Denver Real Estate Ethics Board and the local news stations.”
My eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“I spent the last three days going through every single shared drive, every financial file, and every joint tax document we submitted during our three years together,” Ethan laughed darkly. “I found the offshore consulting transactions from your company sale three years ago. The shell company you used in Nevada to buy your aunt’s estate rights. I compiled a ninety-page whistle-blower dossier alleging tax evasion and money laundering.”
I froze.
The Nevada shell company was a completely legal tax-minimization trust set up by my corporate CPA firm when I sold my partnership. Everything had been vetted by top-tier tax attorneys. But if a fake, distorted whistle-blower claim was leaked to the local media and the IRS, it would trigger a mandatory federal audit. My accounts would be frozen, my real estate acquisitions halted, and my corporate reputation tarnished in the press for months before I could ever clear my name.
Ethan knew it. He didn't need the claims to be true. He just needed to create enough smoke to destroy my credibility and ruin my commercial closing pipelines.
“It’s amazing what a news station will publish when you frame it as a wealthy heiress abusing corporate tax loopholes,” Ethan whispered maliciously. “The story drops on the Channel 7 evening news tomorrow at six o’clock. Unless…”
“Unless what, Ethan?” I asked, my blood boiling beneath my calm exterior.
“Unless you wire five hundred thousand dollars into an offshore account in the Cayman Islands by noon tomorrow,” he demanded. “And you sign over controlling equity of The Velvet Lounge back to my name. You give me my life back, Claire, or I tear yours down to the ground with me.”
“You’re trying to extort me?” I said incredulously. “That is a severe state felony, Ethan!”
“I don't care anymore!” he screamed into the phone. “I have nothing left to lose! Do you hear me?! Nothing! Call your lawyer! Call the FBI! By the time they locate me, the press releases will already be sent, the IRS complaints filed, and your dirty little financial empire will be under federal investigation! You have until noon tomorrow, Claire. Pay me, or burn with me.”
The line went dead with a harsh tone.
I sat in my quiet home office, the tea sitting cold beside my laptop. My heart was pounding against my ribs like a sledgehammer. He had crossed from petty fraud into full-blown blackmail and financial terrorism.
He was right about one thing: a desperate man with nothing left to lose didn't care about going to prison, as long as he dragged his target into the abyss with him.
I didn't panic. I didn't cry. Instead, I opened my laptop, dialed Marcus Vance’s emergency line, and then dialed another number—a private investigator who specialized in digital forensic tracking and undercover surveillance.
“Marcus,” I said the second he answered the phone. “Ethan just called me. He’s attempting a half-million-dollar blackmail extortion using fabricated whistle-blower claims to the press and the IRS.”
“Did you record the call?” Marcus asked instantly.
“Every single second of it,” I replied. “And he gave us until noon tomorrow.”
“Good,” Marcus said, a icy, predatory tone entering his voice. “Because extortion over state lines involving electronic communication escalates this from state fraud straight to the United States Attorney’s Office for the District of Colorado. He just handed us the golden ticket to put him behind bars for twenty years without a trial.”
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“We need to find out where he is calling from right now, Marcus,” I said, looking out at the dark Denver skyline. “He said he’s sleeping in a friend’s garage. I want his exact physical location before midnight.”
“I’m already on it, Claire,” Marcus said. “Don't sleep tonight. Tomorrow morning, we set the ultimate trap.”
