All Chapters of Claimed By My Ex’s Father: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

Finn’s POVThe damp, suffocating heat of the prison metal shop pressed against my chest like a physical weight, a stark contrast to the climate-controlled glass offices I had once taken for granted. I sat on a low, wooden bench near the welding station, my hands flat on my knees, my breath coming in shallow, ragged gaps. The neon-orange fabric of my jumpsuit was stained with dark grease and rust, the stiff material scratching against the raw skin of my collarbone with every movement.My fingers were permanently calloused, the skin rough, split, and embedded with industrial soot. For twenty-six years, these hands had done nothing more strenuous than signing corporate authorizations or holding a leather steering wheel. Now, they were the hands of a common laborer, stripped of the identity, the privilege, and the absolute protection of the Hartley name."Hey, Hartley! Look up at the regional bulletin screen by the main entrance!" an inmate named Kalu shouted from across the concrete f

Finn’s POVThe industrial hum of the prison generator bay pressed against my eardrums like a physical weight, a constant, irritating vibration that made the inside of my skull ache. I sat on a rusted iron tool chest near the secondary maintenance racks, my hands flat on my knees, my breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The neon-orange fabric of my jumpsuit was stained with dark oil and zinc dust, the coarse material scratching against the raw, bleeding blisters on my neck with every movement.My fingers were permanently calloused, the skin rough, split, and embedded with industrial soot. For twenty-six years, these hands had done nothing more strenuous than signing corporate travel vouchers or holding the leather steering wheel of an imported sports car. Now, they were the hands of a common convict, stripped of the identity, the privilege, and the absolute protection of the Hartley name."Hey, Hartley! Look up at the regional bulletin monitor by the guard station!" an inmate na

Finn’s POVThe cold iron floor of the processing tier felt like frost biting through the worn rubber soles of my state-issued boots. It was Monday morning, and the prison yard was enveloped in a thick, gray harmattan haze that rolled over the high concrete walls of the facility, blotting out the sunrise. I sat on the edge of the low metal bench in processing bay four, my elbows resting heavily on my knees, my breath blooming into faint white plumes in the freezing air.The neon-orange jumpsuit had grown faded, its coarse fabric frayed at the wrists and heavily stained with the dark, indelible grease of the industrial laundry machinery. My fingers, once smooth and carefully manicured during my years as the phantom heir of Hartley Global, were now entirely ruined. The skin was thick, split into raw, permanent fissures, and embedded with grey zinc dust from the maintenance cages."Hartley! Stand fast against the partition. Legal courier detail incoming."The guard’s heavy wooden baton

Sloane's POVThe transition of the regional data center into its primary operational phase required seventy-two hours of uninterrupted algorithmic synchronization. By Thursday afternoon, the high-altitude harmattan dust had completely cleared from the skyline, leaving the soaring glass and obsidian monolith of the Hartley Global headquarters standing sharp against the brilliant tropical sun. I sat behind my console in the penthouse suite, the quiet space cooled to a precise, pristine eighteen degrees Celsius to accommodate the massive data servers running silently beneath the floorboards.I wore a structured, floor-length column dress of heavy silk-crepe in a deep matte black, its architectural neckline framing the legendary family emeralds that rested cool and unyielding against my throat. My signature scarlet lips were a flawless, unbothered line. On the secondary monitors to my left, the real-time biometric feeds of our son, Alexander, were displayed in a tiny, glowing silver le

Finn’s POVThe dripping of a rusted condensation pipe at the far end of the corridor was the only metric left to measure the passage of time in tier four. It was exactly two o'clock on Friday morning, and the suffocating pressure of the heat had settled permanently inside the concrete walls. I sat perfectly still on the edge of the low iron bunk, my back pressed hard against the weeping stone wall, my eyes staring fixedly at the dust motes dancing in the faint amber glow of the security lantern. The neon-orange fabric of my jumpsuit felt like coarse sandpaper against my skin, stiff with sweat and heavily embedded with the dark grease of the maintenance bays.My hands, once smooth, soft, and meticulously cared for during my years as the golden prince of the financial district, were entirely ruined. The skin across my palms was thick, split into raw, weeping fissures, and stained with the dark, permanent soot of the industrial machines I was now forced to clean for twelve hours a day