Chapter 4 - The Viral Downfall
Revenge, when orchestrated by old money, is not loud. It is silent, precise, and absolute.
At 8:00 AM the following morning, a video was uploaded to every major social media platform and forwarded to every news outlet in the state. It was the crystal-clear, high-definition security footage from the hospital corridor.
It showed a heavily pregnant woman in a faded dress, clutching her stomach. It showed Savannah Reed, the glamorous Instagram influencer and aspiring model, viciously kicking the pregnant woman in the ribs. And it showed Preston Hartwell, the billionaire CEO, standing by and doing absolutely nothing to protect his wife or his unborn child.
The internet exploded.
By noon, Savannah’s Instagram account had lost a million followers. Her sponsors dropped her instantly. Cosmetics brands issued public statements severing all ties with her. The comments on her remaining posts were a tidal wave of disgust and hatred.
“You attacked a pregnant woman?! You belong in jail!” read one comment with a hundred thousand likes.
Savannah locked herself in Preston’s guest bedroom, sobbing hysterically as her entire career burned to the ground in a matter of hours.
For Preston, the fallout was even more severe.
The public relations nightmare caused his company’s stock to plummet by forty percent in a single trading day. His board of directors called an emergency meeting and voted to temporarily suspend him as CEO pending an internal investigation.
Desperate, Preston drove to the heavily guarded gates of the Sterling Estate, where I had been moved the night before. He banged on the wrought-iron gates, demanding to see his wife.
I stood on the balcony of my childhood bedroom, wrapped in a luxurious cashmere shawl, looking down at him through the security cameras on my iPad.
He looked pathetic. His suit was wrinkled, his hair was a mess, and he was screaming into the intercom.
“Emily! Please! You have to call off your family! I’ll give you whatever you want in the divorce! Just tell the press it was a misunderstanding!”
I picked up my phone and dialed the intercom directly.
“There is no misunderstanding, Preston,” my voice echoed through the speakers at the gate.
Preston froze, looking up toward the massive mansion, though he couldn't see me. “Emily! Baby, please. I’m sorry. Savannah means nothing to me. I made a mistake.”
“You didn’t make a mistake,” I replied coldly. “You made a choice. You chose to treat me like garbage because you thought I was powerless. You blocked my credit cards so I couldn't buy prenatal vitamins. You brought your mistress to the hospital to humiliate me.”
“I’ll fix it! I’ll fire Savannah! I’ll give you half the company!”
“I don’t want your company, Preston. I already own the land it’s built on,” I said softly. “My lawyers have just filed the divorce papers. They are also submitting the financial audit of my charity to the FBI. You embezzled three million dollars from a non-profit, Preston. You’re not just losing your money. You’re going to prison.”
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I cut the connection. Down at the gates, Preston fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands as two police cruisers pulled up behind him to arrest him for violating the restraining order my uncle had filed that morning.
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