The CEO Hit My Car And Mocked Me, Now My Injury Attorney Owns His Mansion

The revelation of the drugs didn't just escalate the case; it detonated Preston's composure. Two days after Chloe's statement, Vance's phone buzzed with the frenetic rhythm of an emergency alert. We were reviewing the medical liens that were threatening to swallow my house whole.

"Turn on the TV," Vance commanded, pointing the remote at the wall-mounted screen.

The news ticker flashed red: BILLIONAIRE ATTEMPTING TO FLEE? The footage showed Preston Sterling, not in a bespoke suit, but in a hoodie, being wrestled to the ground by airport security.

"He tried to board a private jet to the Caymans," Vance narrated dryly. "But we had his passport flagged as a flight risk legal precaution. He didn't think the rules applied to him."

Seeing him pressed against the cold laminate floor of the terminal brought a lump to my throat—not of pity, but of disbelief. The man who had mocked my fifteen-year-old sedan was now being dragged away like a common criminal.

"No bail bond agent in the city will touch him with that flight risk status," Vance noted, checking his tablet. "He's going to spend the weekend in holding."

"What about extradition laws?" I asked, my voice trembling. "If he had made it..."

"He didn't," Vance cut in sharply. "Look."

On the screen, a bystander's phone video leaked. Preston was screaming, spitting at the officers. Then, the camera caught it—the mugshot being processed live. His hair was wild, his eyes manic. It was the face of a man who had lost control.

"The internet is going to eat him alive," I said.