Chapter 3 - The Gilded Cage and the Master Plan**
Three days later, Christian discharged me from St. Jude Medical Center with a circus of cameras flashing outside the front entrance. True to his sociopathic nature, he played the role of the devoted, heartbroken fiancé to absolute perfection. He wrapped his arms around my bandaged shoulders, burying his face in my coat while the paparazzi flashed hundreds of photos, capturing the tragic narrative he had meticulously scripted for America.
*“Pop Star Christian Prescott Stands By Mutilated Fiancée: ‘Her Beauty Is in Her Soul.’”*
The headlines screamed across every major news network and social media platform. Public sympathy for Christian skyrocketed by four hundred percent. Album pre-orders doubled. Tickets for his upcoming world tour sold out in under six minutes. He was untouchable.
Or so he thought.
Back at our multi-million-dollar estate in the hills outside Columbus, Christian settled me into the master guest suite on the ground floor—conveniently far away from his personal quarters upstairs where Sabrina and four-year-old Leo were being quietly smuggled in through the back service entrance.
“You’ll be comfortable here, my love,” Christian said smoothly, smoothing down my blankets while a private-duty nurse stood by quietly in the corner. “Dr. Lawson prescribed some new specialized healing creams. Make sure you apply them twice a day.”
*Specialized healing creams.* More chemicals designed to keep me weak, docile, and permanently dependent.
“Thank you, Christian,” I whispered, keeping my voice soft, submissive, and fragile. “I don't know what I would do without you.”
A flicker of arrogant satisfaction crossed his handsome face. He believed his own propaganda entirely. He believed he had completely broken me.
“Rest up,” he smiled, kissing the top of my bandaged forehead. “The wedding is in three days. Sabrina’s private ceremony is scheduled for the night before at a chapel downtown, and you’ll be watching our public broadcast right here on the big screen.”
As soon as the bedroom door clicked shut, I waited ten minutes until the nurse stepped out to grab fresh linens. I quietly reached beneath the mattress, pulling out the small, encrypted military-grade flash drive Gabriel had smuggled to me the night before inside a hollowed-out medical book.
Plugged directly into my secure laptop, the drive opened up a Pandora’s box that made my breath catch in my throat.
It wasn't just offshore bank accounts. Gabriel had downloaded years of private audio recordings, text logs between Christian and Dr. Lawson discussing the chemical poisoning of my womb, wire transfer receipts paying off the acid attacker, and—most importantly—digital deeds transferring ownership of Christian’s entire publishing catalog, real estate holdings, and trademark rights into a secret holding trust.
Except, two hours ago, using the master admin credentials Gabriel provided, I executed a silent digital transfer.
Every single copyright, every master recording, every dollar in every offshore account, and the title deed to the very mansion we were sitting in had just been legally reassigned to a new, untraceable entity: The Genesis Foundation for Acid Attack Survivors.
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Christian Prescott was legally, entirely bankrupt. He just didn't know it yet.
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