Fierce Mother Rescues Daughter Inside Luxury Mansion | Fast2tricks

The freezing rain soaked through Julian’s expensive Italian silk suit in a matter of seconds, pasting his dark hair to his forehead as he stumbled down the massive gravel driveway of the estate. He had no car; the keys to his imported sports cars had been confiscated by the federal agents who swept the garage earlier that afternoon. He was entirely alone in the affluent neighborhood, a billionaire reduced to a soaked, shivering vagrant in the span of a single hour.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, his fingers shaking violently from the cold and the adrenaline crash. The screen was cracked, but it still turned on. He scrolled frantically through his contacts, bypassing the business associates he knew would already be distancing themselves, and dialed his oldest friend, Richard.

The line rang four times before going to a sterile voicemail.

"Richard, it's Julian," he gasped into the receiver, water dripping from his nose. "I need a place to crash tonight. There's been a massive misunderstanding with the feds and Karen. Just wire me five grand and send an Uber to the estate gates. Call me back immediately."

He hung up and dialed another number. A wealthy golf buddy who owed him countless favors.

"We're sorry, the number you have reached has blocked incoming calls from this device," the automated operator chimed in his ear.

Julian stared at the phone in absolute disbelief. The news of the federal raid and his ousting from the firm must have hit the corporate wire. In the ruthless world of high finance, a man under federal indictment for embezzlement was entirely radioactive. No one was going to help him.

He walked for three agonizing miles in the pouring rain until he reached a rundown commercial strip on the edge of the wealthy district. His expensive leather loafers were ruined, his feet blistered and bleeding. He spotted a flickering neon sign for a cheap, hourly motel.

He pushed through the lobby doors, leaving a puddle of muddy water on the cheap linoleum floor. The night clerk, a bored teenager chewing gum, looked up from his magazine with a sneer.

"I need a room," Julian demanded, trying to summon his usual terrifying authority, but his voice was shaking uncontrollably.

"Credit card and ID," the clerk droned.

Julian handed over his platinum corporate card. The clerk swiped it. The machine beeped a loud, angry red tone.

"Declined," the clerk said, tossing the card back onto the counter. "Got another form of payment, buddy?"

Julian’s stomach dropped. Sterling wasn't bluffing. Every single account tied to his name had been completely frozen. He reached into his soaked pocket and pulled out a damp, crumpled fifty-dollar bill he had kept for valet tips.