Chapter 4 - Freefall
Madison frantically grabbed the remote and turned on CNBC.
The emergency broadcast banner was bright red across the bottom: **HOLLOWAY ENTERPRISES FACES MASSIVE LIQUIDITY CRISIS FOLLOWING ASSAULT SCANDAL.**
The anchor’s face was grim. *"We are breaking into regular programming with catastrophic news for Holloway Enterprises. A horrific video leaked less than an hour ago allegedly shows billionaire CEO Grant Holloway brutally assaulting his seven-months-pregnant wife, Claire Holloway, at the Pacific Crest Charity Gala. Outrage has sparked protests outside the company’s headquarters in downtown Los Angeles. European markets have already opened, and Holloway stock has plummeted twenty-six percent in pre-market trading."*
"Turn it off!" Madison shrieked, backing away from the screen. "Grant, that’s impossible! Maya Bennett is a college student in London! How did she get the private gala security feeds?"
Grant wasn't listening. His phone was ringing again. The caller ID read: *Arthur Vance — Board Chairman*. Madison’s own father.
Grant answered on speaker with trembling hands. "Arthur—"
"You degenerate piece of filth," Arthur Vance’s roar filled the penthouse. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The SEC has just opened an inquiry! Target, Walmart, and Amazon have canceled all supply-chain contracts with our logistics subsidiaries effective immediately! The Department of Justice has dispatched federal agents to secure our corporate servers!"
"Arthur, listen to me, it's a deepfake!" Grant stammered, sweat pouring down his pale face. "Claire orchestrated this to blackmail me during divorce negotiations! Madison was there, she can testify—"
"Madison was the one whispering in her ear on the audio track, you idiot!" Arthur screamed. "Every feminist advocacy group, civil rights organization, and institutional investor in the western hemisphere is demanding your head on a spike! If you don't step down as CEO by 8:00 AM, the board will vote you out for gross moral turpitude and strip your stock options to zero!"
The line went dead.
Grant stood frozen in the middle of the room. The empire his father had built over forty years was collapsing in forty minutes.
"Grant..." Madison whimpered, stepping toward him. "We have to fix this. My father is bluffing. We can liquidate our offshore accounts in the Caymans. We can take the private jet to Switzerland—"
Before Grant could respond, the penthouse doorbell chimed. Not a casual ring, but three sharp, authoritative strikes.
Grant moved cautiously toward the double mahogany doors and checked the digital security monitor.
Standing in the private elevator vestibule were four LAPD detectives, flanked by two armed United States Marshals. The lead detective held a white document up directly to the lens.
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In bold black letters, it read: **WARRANT FOR ARREST: ATTEMPTED FIRST-DEGREE MURDER OF AN UNBORN CHILD; AGGRAVATED FELONY ASSAULT.**
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