Michelle, sleep next door. Chloe stays here tonight.”

The federal courthouse on Fan Pier was surrounded by media vans on Friday morning.

I arrived with Marcus Vance to deliver the final sworn deposition regarding the forensic accounting records we had uncovered during the audit of Hale Dynamics.

Inside the holding facility, through the soundproof glass of the interview room, sat Chloe Grant.

The transformation was absolute. Gone were the tailored silk blouses, the carefully styled hair, the subtle touches of expensive perfume. She sat in an orange prison jumpsuit, her wrists shackled to the metal table. Her hair was greasy, pulled back into a messy bun, and the hollow desperation in her face was stark under the flickering fluorescent lights.

Her defense attorney, a weary public defender who had been assigned after Ryan cut off her private legal retainer, nodded to Marcus and stepped outside to give us three minutes.

I sat down on the metal stool opposite her. I didn't pick up the phone receiver; the glass had an intercom vent.

"You look pleased with yourself," Chloe rasped, her voice bitter, venomous.

"I’m indifferent, Chloe," I answered honestly. "You're a common thief facing ten to fifteen years in a federal penitentiary for wire fraud, identity theft, and grand larceny."

Chloe leaned forward, the chains rattling against the steel table. "You think you won? You think you're better than me because your daddy gave you an empire and a trust fund?"

"I think I’m better than you because I don't steal from the people who employ me, and I don't crawl into another woman’s bed to feed my own inadequacy."

Chloe let out a sharp, ugly sneer. "You know the funniest part? Ryan never loved you. Not really. He was terrified of you. Every time you walked into a room, you owned it. Every time you spoke at an industry panel, the investors listened to you instead of him. He used to come into my office after your dinners, sit on my couch with a glass of bourbon, and complain about how cold you were. How exhausting it was to be around a woman who didn't need him."

Her words were designed to wound, to strike at the deepest insecurities of a jilted bride.

A week ago, they might have worked.

Today, they bounced off me like paper pellets against armor.

"He was right about one thing," I said calmly, resting my hands on my lap. "I didn't need him. And the fact that he needed a parasitic thief to validate his fragile ego is precisely why he is currently being removed from his own board, while you are going to a federal correctional facility in Danbury."

Chloe’s sneer faltered. Her eyes darted frantically, the reality of her four-by-eight-foot future closing in on her.

"Michelle... please," she suddenly begged, shifting gears with terrifying speed, tears instantly welling in her eyes—the exact same performance she had given on my wedding night. "Tell the prosecutor you won't testify on the wire fraud. If you drop the interstate commerce complaint, the charges stay at the state level. I can get probation. I’ll leave Boston. I’ll disappear. I swear you’ll never see me again!"

"You're right about that," I said, standing up from the metal stool. "I will never see you again."

"Michelle! You cold, ruthless bitch! Michelle!"

Her screams echoed against the soundproof glass as the guards opened the heavy metal door. I stepped out into the corridor, adjusted my coat, and walked away into the blinding sunlight of the harbor promenade.