Chapter 6 - St. Barts Reckoning
The tropical sun beat down on the private infinity pool of our villa in Gustavia. St. Barts was breathtaking, but to me, it was nothing more than an execution ground for my marriage.
Ethan spent the first two days on his phone, frantically messaging Vanessa and Chloe while pretending to answer "work emails."
On the third afternoon, as I lay on a sun lounger sipping fresh coconut water, Ethan hurried out onto the terrace holding a tablet. His eyes were wide with excitement, his hands visibly shaking.
"Emma! Honey! Look at this!" he yelled, sitting beside my lounger. "The bank manager just emailed over the final Apex transfer agreement! All it needs is our digital signatures, and the penthouse title will be officially secured!"
I looked up at him through my oversized sunglasses. "Oh, darling, can't it wait until we get back to Chicago?"
"No! No, the bank said the institutional tax exemption window closes at midnight tonight!" he insisted frantically, thrusting a stylus into my hand. "If we don't sign now, we'll lose over two hundred thousand dollars in state incentives!"
"Oh dear," I feigned panic, sitting up quickly. "Well, we certainly can't lose that much money! Where do I sign?"
"Right here at the bottom of page 12," he pointed eagerly with his finger, completely skipping over pages 1 through 11 where the seven-million-dollar liability assumption clause was printed in bold legal script.
I took the stylus, signed my name across the digital line, and handed the tablet back to him. "There. All done!"
Ethan’s eyes gleamed with pure, uncontrolled triumph. He grabbed the tablet, rapidly tapped his own name on the secondary line for Vance Strategic Holdings, and hit 'SUBMIT'.
"Yes!" he cheered, standing up and throwing his arms in the air. "It's done! It's finally done!"
He was so consumed by his victory that he didn't even notice me pulling out my personal phone and sending a single text to Marcus Vance: The rat took the cheese. Execute Phase Two.
Within five seconds, Ethan’s phone began to ring.
He looked down at the caller ID, expecting Vanessa or Chloe. But his smile instantly vanished when he saw the number.
"Vanguard Logistics Internal Audit Division," the screen read.
Ethan’s face drained of every ounce of color. He stepped away from the pool, his voice trembling as he answered. "H-hello? Mr. Henderson?"
"Ethan Vance?" a stern, harsh voice boomed through his phone speaker, loud enough for me to hear every word from my lounger. "Where the hell are you?"
"I... I'm on my honeymoon in St. Barts, sir," Ethan stuttered.
"Well, pack your bags and get back to Chicago immediately!" the director barked. "Federal auditors just arrived at our corporate headquarters with a warrant. They traced six hundred thousand dollars in missing company funds directly to your personal accounts—and your mother’s casino markers in Indiana!"
Ethan dropped his tablet. It shattered against the stone tiles of the pool deck.
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"W-what?" Ethan whimpered, stumbling backward until his knees hit the edge of a wicker chair. "That's... that's impossible! There must be a mistake!"
"There's no mistake!" the director snarled. "And what's worse, an institutional creditor named Apex Development just filed an emergency injunction against your Cayman firm, Vance Strategic Holdings! They're demanding immediate repayment of seven million dollars in assumed corporate debt by five o'clock tomorrow!"
