Chapter 3 - The Freeze of Assets
The transition from the sterile quiet of the hospital ward to the chaotic energy of a criminal investigation happened with terrifying speed.
Within minutes of Dr. Rachel Carter's announcement, the heavy privacy curtains were pushed aside, and Detective Miller of the Charleston Police Department stepped into the cubicle. He was a veteran investigator with a hard, unyielding gaze, and he didn't look at Ethan with the deference my husband was accustomed to.
"Ethan Rowan?" Detective Miller asked, pulling a set of steel handcuffs from his utility belt.
"This is an absolute outrage!" Ethan stammered, his polished, professional facade fracturing, exposing the raw, ugly panic underneath. "My wife is mentally unstable! She had a domestic accident, and this... this doctor is a close personal friend of hers who is trying to frame us for some sick vendetta!"
"We have the live feed from the kitchen, Mr. Rowan," Detective Miller said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. "Your wife’s attorney, Claire, just delivered the high-definition footage to our precinct. We saw your mother throw the oil. We saw her slam the pot. And we saw you step over your wife to clean your shoes. You are being arrested for accessory to felony domestic violence, conspiracy, and obstruction of justice."
Margaret let out a high-pitched, piercing shriek as a second officer grabbed her wrists, pulling them behind her beige blazer. "Get your hands off me! Do you know who my son is? He owns this city! He owns that house!"
"Actually, ma'am," the officer replied, clicking the cuffs into place, "according to the county records we just pulled, neither of you owns a single brick of that property."
As they dragged Ethan and Margaret down the hospital corridor, their frantic shouting echoing off the linoleum walls, I lay back against the pillows. The physical pain of the burns was still intense, but for the first time in three years, I could breathe without feeling like I was suffocating under their weight.
At 8:00 a.m. the following morning, Claire walked into my private room. She carried a thick, navy-blue folder under her arm and a warm cup of black coffee.
"The freeze went live at exactly 4:00 a.m., Victoria," Claire said, sitting down in the chair beside my bed. "The bank has locked all of Ethan’s corporate and personal credit cards. The Rowan Global Enterprises server has been shut down by court order pending the forensic audit. And the security team I hired has already changed the biometric locks on your father’s mansion."
"How is Ethan taking it?" I asked, my voice raspy but clear.
"He’s desperate," Claire smiled, a cold, clinical look in her eyes. "He tried to post bail using the corporate emergency fund, but the transaction was flagged and denied. His personal lawyer tried to access the trust accounts to secure a retainer, only to find that the documents he thought you signed six months ago actually stripped him of every single penny of his administrative authority."
"And Margaret?"
"She’s currently sitting in a holding cell, screaming at her state-appointed lawyer," Claire said. "But Victoria... we have a problem."
May you like
I sat forward slightly, ignoring the sharp pull of the bandages across my chest. "What is it?"
"Ethan didn't spend the last three years just stealing your money," Claire explained, her expression turning grave. "He spent it building a web of corrupt connections within the local real estate board. He has a private investor—a man named Viktor Vance—who has been funding his off-market developments. Viktor is not a man who accepts financial losses. And he has no intention of letting the Hartwell Family Trust freeze his investments."
