Chapter 104

Chapter 104
Jennifer

The morning sun streamed through the blackout curtains, warm and unwelcomed against my face. I flinched and rolled over in bed, the silk sheets sticking uncomfortably to my skin, a remnant of last night’s restless sleep. My head throbbed, still heavy from the wine I’d drained with no one to clink a glass to. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I ignored it. Probably another brand pulling out or another manager officially quitting.

My world had been unraveling for days.

I sat up slowly, the robe slithering across my bare skin as I pulled it tight. My heels clicked as I crossed the polished marble floor to the floor-to-ceiling window. The city sprawled beneath me, bright and mocking. From up here, no one could tell I was falling apart. I told myself that I could still change the narrative.

Today would be different.

I would go to Damon’s house. He’d pick up this time, he had to. Lucian was being petty. But Damon? Damon always came through. He saw me. Knew me. He wouldn’t ignore me.

I padded into the bathroom, twisting my hair into a sleek bun. My hands trembled slightly as I swiped mascara across my lashes. The usual confidence in my reflection was gone. Instead, my eyes looked hollow. Desperate even. Even my skin seemed paler, drained. Still, I pasted on my signature nude gloss and layered the softest beige trench over a simple silk dress. Understated, classy. The Jennifer they remembered.

I stepped out of my penthouse and into the private elevator, ignoring the doorman’s stiff nod.

As soon as I hit the ground floor, I sensed it.

Cameras.

They swarmed the street like hornets, flashes erupting, voices barking my name.

“Jennifer! Is it true?”

“Are you facing jail time?”

“Jennifer, do you have anything to say about the design theft?”

My spine locked. I raised a hand to shield my face, chin tilted up, trying to walk like I still owned the city beneath my heels. Just a few more steps to my car.

“Jennifer Sinclair,” a stern voice called out behind me.

I turned. Two officers stood near the edge of the walkway, badge and warrant folder in hand.

“You are under arrest for charges including assault, contract fraud, attempted coercion, and theft of intellectual property,” the taller one announced.

I laughed. Actually laughed.

“Are you kidding? What is this?” I asked, forcing a smile as more cameras snapped. “There must be a mistake. I’m Jennifer Sinclair”

“You have the right to remain silent,” the officer continued, stepping forward.

“Don’t touch me,” I snapped, backing away.

The female officer grabbed my wrist gently but firmly. My breath hitched.

“You can explain everything at the station.”

“This is insane! I have lawyers! Do you know who I am?”

But they weren’t listening. My arms were pulled behind me and cold steel wrapped around my wrists. The press went feral.

I struggled. “Don’t you dare cuff me in public!”

They did.

The flashbulbs made the world strobe. I felt heat rise to my cheeks. My heart thundered. I tried to stand tall, tried to hold onto dignity, but every step toward the police cruiser felt like I was walking deeper into a nightmare.

Inside the car, the windows muffled the chaos, but the humiliation echoed in my head. I stared at the partition in front of me, mouth dry. I couldn’t feel my hands.

They can’t do this. I’ll be out in an hour. Two tops.

At the station, they led me through a side entrance, away from the main crowd. The building smelled like linoleum and something sour that clung to the back of my throat.

The processing room was too bright. I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, swallowing the urge to scream. The officers were quiet but efficient, taking my fingerprints, removing my jewelry, photographing my face from three different angles.

“This is all a misunderstanding,” I repeated like a mantra.

They didn’t respond. I was placed in a holding cell,a bare room with metal benches and too much echo. My designer heels looked alien against the scuffed concrete floor.

I waited. An hour passed. Then two. No call. No lawyer. No explanation.

When a plain-clothed officer finally entered, he didn’t sit. Just stared at me from the other side of the bars.

“Miss Sinclair,” he said, flipping open a file. “We have multiple testimonies and video evidence confirming several of the charges listed against you. Most damning of all are the forged contracts submitted under your name to five different brands.”

“Forged? That wasn’t me. Someone else must—”

“You’ll have a chance to contest that. For now, your bail has been denied due to the severity and scope of the accusations.”

My mouth went dry.

“Denied?” I whispered.

“Your legal representation has been notified. Several firms have chosen to withdraw from your case based on new evidence.”

“But they can’t. I pay them. They can’t just—”

“You may make one phone call.”

I swallowed a sob.

“I want to call Damon.”

He nodded and led me to a small room with a single phone on the wall. I punched in the number I knew by heart, the one I’d used a thousand times.

It rang once. Then twice. Straight to voicemail. I hung up and tried again.

Again. Voicemail. I dialed Lucian next. My breath hitched as it rang, and rang, and–nothing.

Then Lucian. Disconnected. I stood there, numb, the phone hanging limply in my hand.

They had all abandoned me.

The officer returned. “He’s blocked your number, Miss Sinclair.”

My legs gave out. I sank into the plastic chair, arms trembling. It wasn’t possible. Damon and I had been something. He’d promised to stand by me. Lucian… Lucian would at least listen.

Wouldn’t he? I stared at the pale walls, eyes burning.

This was a nightmare.

Everything I’d built, the empire, the brand deals, the respect—gone.