The morphine should have knocked me out completely, but I heard every single word. When he’s gone, everything is ours. My wife Miranda’s whisper cut through the hospital room silence like a knife through wedding cake. The same cake we’d shared just 7 years ago. I can’t wait, baby. That was Derek’s voice. My business partner, my best man at our wedding, the guy who cried during my vows. The nurse checking my IV suddenly stopped. I could feel her presence lean closer to them.
He can hear everything you’re saying. My name is Gold Cordon. I’m 32 years old. And at this very moment, I’m supposed to be in a coma. 3 days ago, I had what everyone called a tragic accident. Fell down our marble stairs after feeling dizzy. Miranda’s tearful performance for the paramedics deserved an Oscar. But now, lying here with my eyes closed, unable to move, but fully conscious, I was getting the show of a lifetime. Before I continue, please leave a comment below where you’re watching from and what time it is right now.
Your support means everything. And trust me, this story is about to get wild. Miranda’s heels clicked closer to my bed. That expensive perfume I’d bought her for Christmas filled my nostrils. The doctor said he’s in a vegetative state. He can’t hear anything. The nurse, her name tag read Sarah, wasn’t buying it. I’ve been doing this for 15 years, ma’am. Sometimes patients in comas can hear everything. I’ve seen them wake up and repeat entire conversations. Derek laughed. Actually laughed.
Well, good thing we’re not saying anything important then. Right, honey? Honey. He called my wife honey. The same Derek who used to call her Mrs. C out of respect. The same Derek who said I was the luckiest man alive when I married her. We should go, Miranda said quickly. Her voice had that edge to it. The same one she used when she’d hidden my mother’s birthday card last year, claiming it got lost in the mail. Visiting hours are almost over.
After they left, Sarah adjusted my blanket unnecessarily. Her voice was barely a whisper. Mr. Cordon, if you can hear me, don’t try to move. Just listen. I know you’re awake. I’ve seen your brain activity on the monitors. It’s too active for a coma patient. Whatever you do, keep pretending. Your life might depend on it. My mind raced back to the accident. I’d been feeling sick for weeks. Dizzy spells, nausea, weakness. Miranda insisted it was just stress from work.
She’d been making me special protein shakes every morning. Said they’d help with my energy. That morning, I’d felt particularly dizzy at the top of our stairs. The last thing I remembered was Miranda’s hand on my back, supposedly steadying me. But was she steadying me or was she pushing me? The hospital room was quiet now, except for the beeping machines. Through my closed eyelids, I could see the fluorescent lights dimming for the evening shift. My body wouldn’t respond no matter how hard I tried to move.
Whatever they had me on was keeping me paralyzed, but my mind was crystal clear. Sarah returned an hour later with another nurse. They chatted casually about their shifts while checking my vitals. But then Sarah said something odd. Remember that patient from 2 years ago, Derek Mitchell’s business partner? Similar symptoms. Before his car accident, the other nurse gasped. Oh, right. That poor man. dizzy spells for weeks, then drove right off Riverside Bridge. They never found anything suspicious in the toxicology.
Because they weren’t looking for the right things, Sarah muttered. My blood would have run cold if it could. Derek had a previous business partner who died. He’d told me he’d always worked solo before meeting me. Said I was the first person he’d trusted enough to go into business with. We’d built our tech consulting firm from nothing to a $50 million company in just 5 years. Well, technically I’d built it using my inheritance from my father as seed money, but Derek was supposed to be my operations guy, my trusted right hand.
That night, I learned that being trapped in your own body is special kind of torture, but it was nothing compared to the torture of revelation after revelation. Every few hours, Miranda would come in, sometimes alone, sometimes with Derek. They got bolder as days passed, discussing their plans more openly. The house is already in my name thanks to that quit claim deed he signed last year. Miranda said on day two. He thought he was just avoiding estate taxes.
Derek chuckled. You’re brilliant, baby. And the company shares. Power of attorney kicks in if he’s incapacitated for more than a week. Dr. Morrison already agreed to sign the papers. Dr. Morrison, my golf buddy. We’d played 18 holes together just last month, and he’d asked to borrow $50,000 for his gambling debts. I’d refused, telling him to get help instead. Guess he found another way to pay those debts. By day four of my forced performance as a vegetable, I’d pieced together the entire sick puzzle of my perfect life.
Miranda and I had met at a charity gala 8 years ago. She was volunteering, serving champagne to wealthy donors with a smile that could light up the darkest room. I was there because my father’s company was a major sponsor. She didn’t know who I was at first, just thought I was another volunteer helping with cleanup. We talked for hours that night about everything and nothing. She said she loved how down to earth I was despite my success.
Said she dated wealthy men before and they were all arrogant jerks who treated her like property. What a performance that must have been. Lying in that hospital bed, I had nothing but time to analyze every moment of our relationship. The signs were all there like breadcrumbs in a forest I’d been too blind to follow. She’d insisted on a quick engagement, said long engagements were bad luck. She’d pushed for Derek to be my best man, even though I’d only known him for 6 months.
She’d encouraged me to make Derek my business partner. Said I needed someone I could trust while she supported me from home. The protein shakes started 6 months ago, right after I’d mentioned updating my will to include the new charity foundation I wanted to establish. Miranda had seemed supportive, even helped me research different causes. But those shakes, she’d been so insistent, said her grandmother’s secret recipe would boost my immunity. I’d actually felt better at first. Probably just vitamins to throw me off.
But the last two months, they’d made me feel worse, dizzy, confused, weak. Sarah came in during her night shift and pretended to check my chart while speaking quietly. Your blood work from admission shows traces of ethylene glycol. Antifreeze. Basically, small amounts over time cause exactly your symptoms. It’s almost impossible to detect unless you’re specifically looking for it. Antifreeze. My loving wife had been poisoning me with antireeze like I was some unwanted stray cat. The woman who cried at Hallmark commercials, who insisted on catching spiders to release them outside instead of killing them, had been slowly murdering me for money.
The real kicker came on day five when Miranda brought flowers, roses, red ones. She placed them on my bedside table and actually had the audacity to kiss my forehead. “I know you can’t hear me, sweetheart,” she cooed. “But I want you to know I’ll take care of everything. the company, the houses, all those stressful responsibilities you carried. You can just let go. Let go. Like I was holding on to a balloon at a carnival. Derek arrived an hour later with paperwork.
Through my cracked eyelids, I could see him pulling documents from his briefcase. The board meeting is tomorrow. Without gold, I’ll have majority control once you sign over your shares as his healthcare proxy. What about his mother? Miranda asked. Charlotte still owns 15%. 15% of nothing if we liquidate,” Derek said. “Besides, she hasn’t talked to Gold in 3 years. She won’t even know what happened until it’s over.” That was partially true. Mom and I had a falling out when she remarried an Australian man and moved to Sydney.
I’d felt betrayed that she could move on from dad so quickly. But we’d actually been emailing for the past 6 months, slowly rebuilding our relationship. Miranda didn’t know because I’d been using my work email. I’d even sent mom copies of some concerning documents last month when I first started feeling suspicious, though I’d thought I was just being paranoid. The announcement will say he died peacefully,” Derek continued, practicing his speech. Tragic accident followed by complications. “We’ll have a beautiful memorial.
You’ll be the grieving widow who has to be strong and take over his legacy.” “How long before we can be together publicly?” Miranda asked. “6 months minimum. Maybe a year to be safe. We can’t have anyone getting suspicious. A year? Miranda’s voice turned shrill. I’ve already wasted seven years married to him. Wasted? Seven years of my life, building a future I thought we both wanted, and she called it wasted. Derek moved closer to her, and I heard the unmistakable sound of kissing in my hospital room next to my supposedly comeomaosse body.
The lack of respect was almost worse than the attempted murder. Almost. Sarah’s shift started at 11 p.m. and by now I’d learned to anticipate her arrival like a lifeline. On night 6, she brought more than just medical care. Mr. Cordon, she whispered while adjusting my IV. I need you to listen very carefully. My name is Sarah Chen, and I’m not just a nurse. I’m a private investigator working undercover at this hospital. My heart rate must have spiked because she quickly added, “Stay calm.
Don’t react.” I know this is shocking, but I’ve been investigating Derek Mitchell for 2 years. She pulled up a chair pretending to do paperwork while speaking in hushed tones. My sister Linda was Dererick’s first business partner. They had a small investment firm together. She started getting sick about 3 years ago. Same symptoms as you. Dizzy spells, weakness, confusion. Then one night, she drove off Riverside Bridge. The police ruled it an accident. Said she must have had a medical episode.
Sarah’s voice cracked slightly. Linda was the healthiest person I knew. She ran marathons for crying out loud, and she’d told me a week before she died that Dererick had been pushing her to sell her shares to him. When she refused, she started getting sick. The pattern was crystal clear. Now, Dererick finds partners with money, probably introduces them to women like Miranda, and then they slowly eliminate them to take everything. I wasn’t special. I was just the latest Mark.
I became a nurse specifically to get into this hospital, Sarah continued. Dererick’s victims always end up here. It’s the closest trauma center to the wealthy district. I’ve been building a case, but I needed proof. Your blood work is the first solid evidence I’ve found of poisoning. She pulled out a small device from her pocket. This is a recording device. I’m going to tape it under your bed. It’s voice activated and has a 30-day battery. Everything they say will be evidence.
Over the next few days, Sarah taught me a communication system. One finger twitch for yes, two for no. It was exhausting. Whatever drugs they had me on made even that tiny movement feel like lifting weights. But it was contact with the outside world, and that kept me sane. On day eight, Sarah brought news that changed everything. Your mother is flying in from Australia. She’ll be here tomorrow. My heart soared. Mom. Tough as nails. Charlotte Cordon, who once made a CEO cry in a board meeting when he tried to squeeze dad out of his own company.
There’s more, Sarah said. I did some digging into your father’s company structure. Did you know your mother still owns 51%? I tried to Twitch no, but couldn’t manage it. This was news to me. Dad’s will had been clear. Everything went to me. It’s hidden in a trust, Sarah explained. Your father set it up so that if anything happened to you before age 35, control would revert to your mother. You only inherited 49%. It was his way of protecting the company from exactly this kind of situation.
Brilliant, paranoid dad. Even from the grave, he was protecting me. That night, Miranda and Derek had their boldest conversation yet. Probably thinking the night shift skeleton crew wouldn’t notice or care. Dr. Morrison wants an extra 50,000 to declare him brain dead. Dererick said, “Pay it.” Miranda snapped. “We’ve come too far to get cheap now. The memorial is already planned. I’ve got the times ready to run the obituary.” “Did you use the photo from our wedding?” Miranda asked.
“The one where he’s looking at you like you hung the moon?” “Yeah, perfect grieving widow imagery.” They both laughed. “Actually laughed while planning my funeral.” “I’d heard of adding insult to injury, but this was adding standup comedy to attempted murder.” “What about the houses?” Derek asked. The Manhattan penthouse is worth 12 million alone. The Hampton’s house, another eight. The Colorado Ski Lodge, about five. They were cataloging my life like an estate sale. The Manhattan penthouse where I’d proposed to Miranda on the terrace.
The Hampton’s house, where we’d planned to raise children. The Colorado Lodge, where we’d spent our honeymoons? Yes, plural. Because I’d surprised her with a second honeymoon for our fifth anniversary. And you’re sure the prenup is void? Derek asked. Miranda laughed. The prenup I insisted on. The one that protects assets in case of divorce. Death voids everything, darling. Ironically, I’m the one who made sure of that clause. I told Gold it was to protect him from gold diggers.
The irony was so thick you could cut it with a scalpel. She’d literally called out her own kind while being one. Two weeks. 14 days of playing dead while very much alive. If Shakespeare had written a modern tragedy, this would be it. except even he wouldn’t have believed the plot twists. Mom arrived on day nine like a hurricane in designer heels. I knew it was her before she even spoke. That familiar click click click of her lubboutans and the scent of Chanel number five that had been her signature since before I was born.
Where is my son? Her voice boomed through the hospital corridor. Not where is gold or where is the patient. Where is my son? possession and protection in three words. Miranda’s voice went up three octaves, trying to sound bererieved. Charlotte, I didn’t know you were coming. I tried to call, but cut the act, sweetheart. Mom interrupted. I know exactly what you are. The room went silent except for the beeping machines. I wanted to smile so badly my face hurt.
I don’t know what you mean, Miranda stammered. Gold and I have been married for 7 years. I love him. Love? Mom’s laugh could have frozen hellfire. You love his bank account. You love his properties. You love the idea of being a wealthy widow, but love him. Please, I’ve seen how you look at him when you think no one’s watching. Like he’s a lottery ticket. You’re waiting to cash in. If you’re enjoying this story, please consider subscribing and hitting that like button.
Your support helps me share these incredible true stories. And I truly appreciate each one of you listening. Derek tried to intervene with his fake CEO voice. Mrs. Cordon, Ms. Cordon, Mom corrected. And you must be the parasite attached to my son’s company. I’m his business partner and friend. You’re a con artist with a good suit and a dental plan. Mom shot back. I’ve had you investigated, Mr. Mitchell. Changed your name three times in 10 years. Interesting hobby for an honest businessman.
The silence was deafening. Sarah, who was checking my vitals, had to turn away to hide her expression. Now, Mom continued, her heels clicking as she moved closer to my bed. I’m going to sit with my son. You two can slither back to whatever hole you crawled out of. They left, but not before Dererick whispered to Miranda. We need to speed things up. Mom waited until they were gone, then sat beside my bed and took my hand. Her voice softened completely.
Hello, my darling boy. I know we haven’t talked properly in years, but I never stopped loving you. Never stopped watching over you. She squeezed my hand three times. Our old signal from when I was a kid. It meant I love you. I desperately wanted to squeeze back. I got your emails, she continued quietly. All those documents you sent. I’ve had my lawyers reviewing everything for weeks. Don’t worry, sweetheart. Mama’s here now. And you know what they say about Australian women.
We’re tougher than crocodile leather and twice as mean when protecting our young. Over the next few days, mom established herself as an immovable force in my hospital room. She brought her own coffee maker, her iPad, and what looked like half a law library. When Miranda tried to limit her visiting hours, mom produced a healthc care directive I’d apparently signed 3 years ago, naming her as my medical decisionmaker if I was ever incapacitated. But I’m his wife, Miranda protested.
and I’m his mother,” Mom replied coolly. “And according to this document, which predates your marriage, I have superiority in medical decisions. Would you like to challenge it in court? I’m sure a judge would love to hear why you’re so eager to pull the plug on a man who’s only been in a coma for 2 weeks.” Derek tried a different approach, attempting to charm Mom with his business acumen. Charlotte, I understand this is difficult. As Gold’s partner, I want to assure you the company is in good hands.
Mom looked at him over her reading glasses. Mr. Mitchell, you couldn’t manage a lemonade stand without committing fraud. I’ve seen your books. Creative accounting is supposed to be subtle, dear. The best part was when mom brought in her own doctor, a specialist from Mount Si, who happened to be an old family friend. Interesting, Dr. Patel said after examining me. His reflexes are surprisingly good for someone in a supposed vegetative state and these blood tests. Sarah, did you run a toxicology panel?
Sarah nodded quickly. Yes, doctor. Standard procedure. I’d like to run a few more specific tests. Some of these levels are unusual. Dr. Morrison suddenly appeared sweating like a turkey on Thanksgiving. That won’t be necessary. I’m Mr. Cordon’s attending physician, and I’ve already already what? Dr. Patel asked. Decided he’s brain dead without an EEG. Interesting medical judgment. I’d love to see your reasoning in court. I mean, in the chart, the slip was intentional. Everyone knew it. Dr. Morrison went pale and excused himself.
That night, mom stayed after visiting hours. She’d somehow convinced the hospital administration that she needed to be there for religious reasons. Something about Australian Aboriginal dream, watching that she completely made up on the spot. She held my hand and talked to me like we used to when I was young, before dad died, before the money complicated everything. Remember when you were eight and that bully Tommy Morrison took your lunch money? She asked softly. You came home crying.
And I told you that the best revenge isn’t getting even. It’s getting everything. You went to school the next day and convinced Tommy to invest his allowance in your candy business. By the end of the month, you owned his bicycle and he was working for you. She laughed at the memory. You were always too smart for your own good, but not smart enough to see through that witch you married apparently. Though in fairness, she’s good. I almost believed her grieving widow act myself for about 5 seconds.
She leaned closer and whispered. Sarah told me everything. We’re building quite the case, my darling. Your father would be proud. He always said the best trap is the one where the prey walks in willingly, thinking they’re the predator. On day 13, Miranda made a critical mistake. She got impatient. We need to move him to a long-term care facility, she announced to Dr. Morrison in my room thinking mom had stepped out. But mom was just around the corner recording everything on her phone.
It’s too soon. Dr. Morrison protested. People will ask questions. Then stop them from asking. Miranda hissed. We’re paying you enough. Declare him brain dead tomorrow or the deal’s off and you can explain to your bookie why you don’t have his money. You can’t threaten me. I’m not threatening. I’m promising. Derek has connections you don’t want to meet. Do your job, doctor, or find out what happened to Dererick’s last business partner. That was it. That was the confession we needed.
Mom texted someone immediately, and I could hear her whisper, “Did you get that? Perfect. Tomorrow then. ” The stage was set for the final act, and the players had no idea the curtain was about to rise on their performance. Day 14 started like a chess match where mom had already planned 30 moves ahead and Miranda and Derek were still learning how the pieces moved. The boardroom meeting that would determi ne my company’s fate was scheduled for 200 p.m.
What Miranda and Derek didn’t know was that mom had called an emergency shareholders meeting for the same time in my hospital room. This is highly irregular, Derek protested when five board members showed up with coffee and laptops. So is attempting to liquidate a company while its founder is temporarily incapacitated. Mom replied sweetly. Now let’s discuss the quarterly reports, shall we? Miranda tried to assert her authority as my healthc care proxy. Gold can’t participate in business decisions in his condition.
Good thing he doesn’t need to, mom said, pulling out a folder that looked thick enough to stop bullets. Ladies and gentlemen of the board, I present documentation showing that I, Charlotte Cordon, own 51% of Cordon Tech through the Charlotte Family Trust established by my late husband 15 years ago. Derek’s face went through more color changes than a mood ring in a sauna. That’s impossible. Gold owns the company. Gold owns 49%, Mom corrected. A significant portion certainly, but not controlling interest.
I’ve been a silent partner, respecting my son’s vision. But given recent circumstances and some concerning financial irregularities, I’ve discovered, I’m resuming active control.” She clicked her iPad, and the wall-mounted TV in my room lit up with spreadsheets. “Mr. Mitchell, would you care to explain why $3 million was transferred to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands last month?” “That was for uh international expansion,” Derek stuttered. “Into what? Pina coladas and tax evasion. Mom’s Australian accent made the sarcasm even sharper.
And this purchase order for $50,000 worth of consulting services from a company that was incorporated the day before the payment. Board member Jennifer Walsh, who’d always been suspicious of Derek, leaned forward. I’ve been questioning these transactions for months. Derek always said gold approved them. From his hospital bed, mom asked innocently. How remarkable. The man can’t open his eyes but can authorize wire transfers. Should we call the Vatican about this miracle? Sarah entered with my latest test results.
Right on Q. Dr. Patel wanted these distributed to the family immediately. Mom read them aloud. Traces of ethylene glycol found in patients system. Recommend immediate collation therapy and criminal investigation. Ethylene glycol. Jennifer gasped. That’s antifreeze. Mom finished. Someone’s been poisoning my son. Security footage from our building shows Derek bringing gold coffee every morning for the past six months. Strange habit for a busy executive, don’t you think? Derek stood up so fast his chair fell over. You can’t prove anything.
Sit down, you walking felony, mom snapped. We’re not done. She produced another document. This is a signed affidavit from your previous partner, Linda Chen’s sister, stating that Linda experienced identical symptoms before her death. She also has recordings of you discussing removing obstacles with someone named Miranda. Gosh, where have I heard that name before? Miranda had gone pale. She grabbed her purse. I need to go. No one’s leaving until we vote. Mom announced motion to remove Derek Mitchell from all positions within Corde.
effective immediately. Second, Jennifer’s hand shot up. All in favor? Every hand went up except Derek’s. Motion carried. Security will escort you out, Mr. Mitchell. Your personal belongings will be mailed to you, assuming you’re not in federal prison. But mom wasn’t done. She turned to Dr. Morrison, who’d been trying to blend into the wallpaper. “Doctor, I believe you have some papers to sign. Something about declaring my son brain dead. I I need to run more tests,” he stammered.
How wonderfully ethical of you to suddenly develop standards. Run along then. I’m sure the medical board will be fascinated by your change of heart when they review your license. The room was chaos. Board members were on phones with lawyers. Derek was screaming about lawsuits and Miranda was edging toward the door. But mom stood calm in the center of it all like a conductor managing a symphony of justice. “Oh, Miranda, dear,” Mom called out sweetly. Before you leave, you should know I had a lovely chat with your first husband yesterday.
Miranda froze. My first husband is dead. No, sweetheart. Your second husband is dead. Car accident, wasn’t it? So tragic. Your first husband, Carlos, is very much alive in Miami. He was quite surprised to learn you’d remarried, considering you never divorced him. Bigamy is still illegal, last I checked. Makes this whole marriage to my son rather void, doesn’t it? The revelation hit the room like a tsunami of gasps. Even Derek looked shocked. You were already married? Dererick asked.
Miranda. It was enulled. Miranda protested. Carlos has the papers that say otherwise. Mom said he’s been quite cooperative with the FBI. Apparently, you cleaned out his bank account before disappearing. He’s been looking for you for 10 years. Sarah stepped forward. Mrs. Mitchell or whatever your real name is. There are some people here to see you. Two FBI agents entered the room. badges visible. The lead agent, a woman who looked like she bench pressed criminals for fun, spoke clearly.
Miranda Mitchell, you’re under arrest for attempted murder, fraud, bigamy, and conspiracy to commit murder. You have the right to remain silent. Wait, Miranda shrieked. It was all Derek. He planned everything. I was just just poisoning your husband, the agent asked. We have the receipts for antireeze purchased with your credit card. Also, fun fact, we when you Google how much antireeze to kill someone slowly, you should probably use incognito mode. Derek tried to run, but apparently FBI agents are faster than middle-aged con men who skip leg day.
He made it about 3 ft before being tackled into my heart monitor. The beeping went crazy, which honestly added to the dramatic effect. This is entrapment, Derek shouted from the floor. No, the agent replied. Entrament is when law enforcement induces you to commit a crime. This is just you being bad at crime. As the FBI was reading Miranda and Derek their rights, Dr. Patel entered with a team of nurses. Clear the room, please. We need to begin treatment immediately.
Mom looked at me, then at Dr. Patel. Is it time if we’re going to save him from permanent damage? Yes. Everyone was ushered out except mom, Sarah, and Dr. Patel. The agents kept Miranda and Derek in the hallway, handcuffed to chairs where they had a perfect view through the glass doors. Dr. Patel leaned over me. Mr. Cordon, if you can hear me, we’re going to administer medication to counteract the paralytic agent in your system. It might take a few minutes to work.
The injection went into my IV. At first, nothing happened. Then, like ice melting in spring, I felt warmth spreading through my body. My fingers tingled. My toes moved slightly. Gold. Mom’s voice was hopeful. Can you hear me? I managed to squeeze her hand three times. Our signal. She started crying. Charlotte Cordon, who hadn’t cried at Dad’s funeral, was sobbing. Take your time, Dr. Patel advised. Your muscles haven’t been used properly in 2 weeks. Slowly, painfully, I opened my eyes.
The fluorescent lights were brutal, but not as brutal as seeing Miranda and Dererick’s faces through the glass. Their expressions went from shock to horror to the kind of fear usually reserved for people who just realized they’re out of Wi-Fi. “Hi, Mom,” I croked. My voice sounded like I’d gargled gravel. “But it was mine. ” “Hello, my darling boy,” she whispered, kissing my forehead. Sarah was crying, too. “Welcome back, Mr. Cordon.” I looked toward the glass doors where my wouldbe killers sat.
With enormous effort, I raised my hand and waved. Just a little finger wave like you’d give to a toddler. The same wave I’d given Miranda every morning when she left for her fake charity meetings that were actually rendevous with Derek. Miranda fainted, just dropped like someone had cut her strings. Derek tried to catch her but forgot he was handcuffed and ended up falling too. The FBI agents just stepped over them. Can you speak? Dr. Patel asked. “Yeah,” I said slowly.
“I want I want to make a statement. ” The lead FBI agent entered with a recorder. “Mr. Cordon, I’m Agent Martinez. Are you able to provide testimony?” I nodded. Every word, every plan, every confession. I heard it all. Over the next hour, I laid out everything. The poisoning, the affair, the forged documents, the plan to kill me, Dererick’s previous partner’s death. Sarah provided her recordings. Mom provided the documents. And the FBI agents looked like kids on Christmas morning.
This is the most comprehensive evidence package I’ve seen in 20 years. Agent Martinez said, “They basically confessed to everything while you were conscious. They thought I was vegetables.” I said, my voice getting stronger. Turns out vegetables have ears. Derek, who’d been helped back to his chair, shouted through the glass. You were awake the whole time? I smiled. Every single second. By the way, Derek, that story you told about your college glory days, you didn’t win the championship game.
You were benched for missing practice. I looked it up on my phone while you were bragging to my comeomaos body. It was petty. But after 2 weeks of forced silence, I was entitled to a little pettiness. Jennifer Walsh poked her head in. Gold, I’m so sorry we didn’t see this coming. Not your fault, I said. They were good, just not good enough to beat a cordon woman on a mission. Mom squeezed my hand again. Your father would be so proud.
He probably saw this coming. I replied, “That trust fund setup was genius.” “Actually,” Mom admitted. That was my idea. “Your father was too trusting. I knew someday someone would try to take advantage of his son. I just didn’t expect it to be your wife.” Dr. Morrison was escorted in by security. He looked like he’d aged 10 years in 10 minutes. “Gold, I I’m sorry. They threatened me. My debts, save it for the medical board,” I interrupted. and the judge and probably your cellmate.
As they were all led away, Miranda found her voice one last time. “Gold, please. I did love you. In the beginning, you loved my credit score.” I corrected. “You loved my zip code. You loved my investment portfolio. But me? You tried to kill me over designer handbags and a beach house.” “It was never about the money,” she cried. “Really?” I asked. “Then why did you search Gold Cordon net worth before our first date?” Yeah, I know about that, too.
You used my laptop and apparently you don’t know how to clear search history. Derek tried one last manipulation. Partner, come on. We built something great together. You built a fraud case, I replied. I built a company, and thanks to my mother’s foresight, you never owned a real piece of it. Those shares you thought you had? They were non- voting shares. Basically, monopoly money with my signature. Agent Martinez couldn’t hide her smile. Mr. Cordon, we’ll need you to come to the station when you’re feeling better for a full statement.
I’ll be there with bells on. Maybe not bells, that would be weird, but I’ll definitely be there. 3 weeks later, I was home from the hospital and watching the news coverage from my Manhattan penthouse, the one Miranda had already mentally redecorated. Tech executive Derek Mitchell and Miranda Cordon were indicted today on 37 counts, including attempted murder, fraud, embezzlement, and conspiracy, the anchor announced. In a shocking twist, “Investigators have linked Mitchell to three other suspicious deaths of business partners over the past decade.” “I turned to Sarah, who’d become a close friend through all of this.
” “Three others?” she nodded. “Once the FBI started digging, they found a pattern. Your testimony broke the whole thing open. My sister is finally getting justice. The trials were a media circus. Miranda showed up in designer outfits for the first few days trying to play the victim. But when Carlos, her very much alive first husband, testified about how she’d stolen his identity and life savings. Even her lawyer looked disgusted. The best moment came when the prosecutor played the recordings Sarah had made.
The jury heard Miranda laughing about my protein shakes, calling me the golden goose she was preparing to cook. One juror actually gasped when they heard her practicing her grieving widow speech. Dererick’s defense was that Miranda had manipulated him. That fell apart when they presented evidence of his previous crimes. Turns out he hadn’t changed his name three times for fun. He was running from fraud charges in three different states. My favorite revelation came from a forensic accountant who discovered Dererick had been embezzling from our company since day one.
But here’s the beautiful irony. He’d been stealing from the portions he thought he owned, essentially robbing himself. When he found out those shares were worthless, he actually threw up in court. The dominoes kept falling. Dr. Morrison lost his medical license and was sentenced to 5 years for attempted murder conspiracy. He also had to pay back every cent he’d ever borrowed from gambling debts, which meant selling everything he owned, including his prized golf clubs. I may have bought them at the auction just to donate them to a youth program.
Miranda’s family, old money from Connecticut, who’d always looked down on me as new money, completely disowned her. Her mother actually sent me an apology letter and a check for a million dollars for my troubles. I donated it to a poison victim support group that Sarah had started. The company thrived without Derek’s creative accounting. Turns out, when you’re not hemorrhaging money to offshore accounts, profit margins improved dramatically. Who would have thought? Jennifer Walsh, who’d been suspicious all along, became my new COO.
She implemented a new policy requiring background checks so thorough they probably knew what you had for breakfast in third grade. But the best justice came from an unexpected source. Remember Tommy Morrison? my childhood bully who Dr. Morrison was distantly related to. He was now a federal prosecutor. He personally requested to be assigned to the case. Gold, he said when we met for coffee. I owe you an apology from fourth grade, and I’m going to pay it back with interest by making sure these two never see freedom until they’re too old to enjoy it.
He kept his promise. Derek got 25 to life. Miranda got 20 years with Carlos’s case adding another 10. The bigamy charge was just the cherry on the justice Sunday. During the sentencing, the judge said something I’ll never forget. In my 30 years on the bench, I’ve rarely seen such calculated cruelty disguised as love. Mrs. Mitchell, you took vows to love and cherish in sickness and in health. Instead, you caused the sickness and planned for death. Mr. Mitchell, you betrayed not just business trust, but human decency.
The sentences I’m imposing today can’t undo your crimes, but they can ensure you never harm anyone again, Miranda cried. Real tears this time. Derek just stared at the table, probably calculating how old he’d be when he got out. The civil suits were even more satisfying. Miranda’s bigamy meant our marriage was void, so she got nothing. Zero. Natada. The prenup she’d insisted on became irrelevant. She went from planning to own millions to owning a prison jumpsuit. Dererick’s assets were seized to pay back what he’d stolen.
His beloved Ferrari collection auctioned. His penthouse sold. His country club membership revoked with extreme prejudice. The club actually sent me a fruit basket apologizing for ever letting him in. 6 months after waking up from my forced coma, I stood in my office. My real office, not the one Dererick had tried to steal, looking out at the New York skyline. You know, Mom said, entering with her usual impeccable timing. Most people who have near-death experiences say they see a bright light.
You saw a bitter ex-wife and a con man. We really need to work on your spiritual journey. I laughed. Mom and I had rebuilt our relationship stronger than ever. Turns out I won’t say but almost being murdered by your spouse is a great reason to forgive your mother for remarrying. How Sydney? I asked about her husband. Wonderful. He sends his regards and a case of Australian wine. He says it’s for medicinal purposes specifically forgetting you ever married that witch.
Sarah knocked and entered. The foundation papers are ready for your signature. The Linda Chen Foundation for Corporate Crime Victims was my way of honoring Sarah’s sister and helping others who’d been destroyed by white collar criminals. Sarah ran it with the same determination she’d shown in catching Derek. We’ve already helped 12 families, Sarah reported. One woman discovered her husband had been slowly poisoning her for insurance money. She’s making a full recovery. What is it with people in antireeze?
I asked. It’s sweet tasting and historically hard to detect, Sarah explained. though. Thanks to your case, hospitals are now testing for it more regularly. My assistant buzzed in. Mr. Cordon, Rebecca Matthews is here for her interview. Rebecca was applying for Derek’s old position. She came highly recommended, had an impeccable resume, and had passed a background check so thorough the FBI asked to borrow our screening process. After the interview, which went brilliantly, Rebecca asked, “Can I ask a personal question?
How do you trust anyone after what happened?” I thought about it. I don’t trust differently. I trust smarter. I verify everything. I listen to my instincts. And I keep people like my mother close. People who loved me before I had money and would love me if I lost it all. That’s beautiful. She said, “That’s survival,” I corrected. “But also, I installed a really good security system, and now all my food gets tested. I’m basically a medieval king with better Wi-Fi.” That night, I had dinner with mom, Sarah, and Jennifer at my favorite restaurant, the one where Miranda claimed to be allergic to shellfish, but was actually just calculating the prices.
A toast. Mom raised her glass to gold. Who proved that the best revenge isn’t getting even, it’s getting everything? I finished Dad’s old saying. Actually, mom smiled. I was going to say it’s staying alive to testify, but yours works, too. We laughed. real genuine laughter, the kind Miranda used to fake at my jokes. Jennifer’s phone buzzed. She read it and grinned. Dererick’s appeal was denied. The judge called it ambitious but delusional, which coincidentally is what I used to call his business proposals.
What about Miranda? Sarah asked. Apparently, she’s teaching yoga in prison, I said. The inmates call it namaste in jail. She’s also writing a book, Mom added. How to marry a millionaire and ruin your life. I suggested a better title. Orange is the new wealthy. As we walked home, Sarah asked, “Do you ever think about dating again?” “Eventually,” I said. “But next time, I’m running a credit check, a criminal background check, a previous marriage check, and possibly requiring references from three ex-boyfriends.” “That’s a bit much,” she laughed.
“Is it though? Is it really?” We passed a charity gala poster, the same type of event where I’d met Miranda. I didn’t feel bitter, just wiser. Back in my penthouse, I found a letter slipped under my door. No postmark, handd delivered. I opened it carefully. These days, I was cautious about unexpected mail. It was from Carlos, Miranda’s first husband. He’d written simply, “Thank you for exposing her. I’ve spent 10 years thinking I was crazy, that no one would believe me.
You gave me closure. P.S. I’m getting married next month to a wonderful woman who has her own money and no interest in mine. There’s hope for us both.” I smiled and tucked the letter into my desk drawer next to the photo of dad and me at my college graduation. He’d said something that day I’d never forgotten. Success isn’t about what you accumulate, son. It’s about what you survive. Boy, had I survived? The penthouse was quiet now. No more Miranda pretending to care about my day.
No more Derek stopping by with poisoned coffee disguised as friendship. Just peaceful, honest silence. My phone rang. It was my lawyer with good news. Gold? Thought you’d want to know. We’ve recovered another 2 million from Dererick’s hidden accounts. Donate it to the foundation, I said without hesitation. All of it? Every penny. I’ve got everything I need. And I did. I had my health minus some antireeze damage. That would make me an interesting medical case study. I had my company stronger than ever.
I had my mother back, fiercer and more protective than a guard dog with an Australian accent. I had real friends who’d proven themselves when it mattered.
