2026-02-22 00:03:45
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132
Day 1 of 7. Lucy worked through the night, running financial models. Chen Global without the trust backing. What did that look like? She called Alex at 6 AM. "I have preliminary numbers. They're not good." "Tell me." "Without the trust, Chen Global is worth approximately forty-eight billion. Solid. But not transformative. We'd have to scale back operations by sixty percent. The foundation would shrink to a fraction of current size." "How much of a fraction?" "We could deploy maybe five billion annually. Instead of the hundred billion we've been doing." "That's still significant." "It's a rounding error compared to what we're doing now. Alex, are you prepared for that? For going from world-changing to... just very wealthy?" "I don't know. But keep modeling. I want to know exactly what we're giving up." "I'll have a full r
131
The next day. Richard Ashford's office. Canary Wharf, London. The building was all glass and steel. Modern. Powerful. A monument to wealth earned, not inherited. Alex and Isabella were led to the top floor. Corner office. Panoramic views of London. And behind the desk sat a man who looked unsettlingly familiar. Richard Ashford was in his sixties. Silver hair. Strong features. Sharp eyes. He looked like Alex's grandfather. Remarkably so. Same bone structure. Same intensity. Same presence. But where Richard Chen had been warm beneath the steel, Richard Ashford was... cold. Analytical. Distant. "Alexander Chen." He stood. Extended his hand. "Thank you for coming." They shook. The contact was brief. Professional. "This is my wife, Isabella." "Mrs. Chen." Richard nodded to her. "Please, sit."
130
One year after release. San Francisco. Alex was in the Chen Global boardroom reviewing foundation reports when his phone rang. Unknown number. International. He almost ignored it. But something made him answer. "Mr. Chen?" A woman's voice. Older. British accent. "My name is Margaret Ashford. I'm calling from London. I represent the estate of Elizabeth Chen." Alex's blood went cold. Elizabeth Chen. His grandmother. Who'd died thirty years ago. "I'm aware of who my grandmother was." "Are you? Mr. Chen, I need to meet with you. In person. There are... complications regarding your inheritance. Your grandfather's estate. Everything." "What kind of complications?" "The kind that can't be discussed over the phone. Can you come to London? This week?" "I just got out of prison. I'm not eager to leave the country."
129
Day 1 of suspension. Alex woke to a guard delivering unexpected news. "Chen. You're being moved. Back to the main facility. Judge's orders. The isolation threat has been deemed reduced." "Why?" "The Kovalenkos. Swiss police raided their operations last night. Arrested the patriarch and his son. Something about your lawyer providing evidence of other crimes. Financial fraud. Tax evasion." Alex almost smiled. Marie must have used the consortium intelligence. Taken down the last enemy while the trial was suspended. Strategic. Brilliant. Typical Marie. He was transferred back to a regular cell. Still solitary, but with a window. Natural light. The sound of other human beings nearby. It felt like luxury after isolation. Marie visited that afternoon. "I heard about
128
Day 1 of Trial. Hans Müller stood to call his first witness. "The prosecution calls Inspector Laurent Beaumont of the New Meridian Police." A man in his fifties took the stand. Dressed in uniform. Serious expression. After being sworn in, Müller began. "Inspector Beaumont, can you describe what you found at Korolev restaurant on the night of March 15th?" "Multiple casualties. Fifteen men dead. Significant damage to the property. Evidence of a firefight." "And Dimitri Volkov?" "Dead. Two gunshot wounds. One to the shoulder. One to the chest. Fatal." "Did you investigate who shot him?" "We attempted to. But witnesses were... uncooperative. Many fled. Others refused to speak. And the primary suspects—" He looked at Alex. "—had already left the country." "Did you find evidence of self-defense?" "We found evidence
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Day 150 of custody. Seven days until trial. The isolation cell was driving Alex to the edge. No windows. No natural light. Just artificial fluorescence that never fully turned off. No human contact except for guards who slid meals through a slot and said nothing. No visitors. Too dangerous, they said. The threat was too credible. Just Alex. And silence. And the slow dissolution of his sanity. He'd developed coping mechanisms. Routines that kept him anchored. Morning: Two hundred pushups. Two hundred situps. An hour of yoga positions he'd learned from Isabella. Afternoon: Reading. He'd requested philosophy. Marcus Aurelius. Seneca. Epictetus. Stoics who understood hardship. Evening: Writing. Letters to Isabella that he couldn't send. Journal entries that helped him process. Night: The hardest time. When memorie
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