My husband forgot to end the video call, and more than thirty employees saw his assistant sitting on his lap with her blouse partly undone.

Flynn had retreated to the presidential suite of the Four Seasons downtown, using an emergency corporate credit line that had escaped the initial freeze.

Armed with the decrypted contents of the hard drive and flanked by Julian Cross and two plainclothes corporate investigators, I arrived at his suite on Sunday evening. The board’s final emergency vote was scheduled for 8:00 AM the following morning, and Flynn had spent the day preparing an injunction to block my voting rights.

When Flynn opened the door, he held a tumbler of bourbon in his hand. He looked haggard, his dress shirt wrinkled, his eyes wild with manic energy.

"Mabel," he sneered, stepping back to let us enter. "Brought your legal watchdog, I see. Come to beg for a settlement before the judge grants my temporary restraining order tomorrow morning? I have five character affidavits from medical professionals stating you were treated for depressive exhaustion. You think any judge will let you seize control of a publicly traded company?"

I walked over to the suite’s mahogany dining table and set down my briefcase. I clicked the latches open and pulled out a single sheet of paper, laying it flat under the chandelier.

"That won't be necessary, Flynn," I said calmly.

"What's that? Your surrender terms?" he mocked, taking a heavy sip of bourbon.

"It’s an arrest warrant from the state attorney general's financial crimes division," Julian Cross answered, his voice smooth and lethal. "It will be signed and executed at 9:00 AM tomorrow, unless you execute this full surrender and divestment agreement tonight."

Flynn laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You're bluffing! You don't have the paper trail! Selina’s brother took the heat for the Delaware entity!"

I placed a tablet on the table and pressed play.

Selina’s face appeared on the screen, sitting in Julian’s office beneath bright legal lights, a court stenographer visible in the background. Her voice was steady, clear, and devastating.

*“—Flynn Vance ordered the creation of Aegis Strategies in March 2022. He personally supplied the routing numbers for the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. He explicitly instructed me to bill Vance Global for fictional consulting services to fund personal expenses, including my apartment lease and the purchase of an eight-carat diamond pendant from Beacon Hill Jewelers. He stated that his wife was too financially illiterate to ever notice the discrepancy—”*

Flynn’s glass slipped from his fingers. It hit the thick carpet with a dull thud, bourbon soaking into the fibers.

His face turned an ash-gray color. The manic confidence evaporated, leaving behind a hollow, terrified shell.

"She... she's lying," he whispered, though his knees buckled slightly. "She's trying to save her own skin..."

"We have the hard drive, Flynn," I said, stepping closer to him. "Every email. Every wire authorization with your digital certificate. Every text message where you joked with your PR consultant about making me look crazy so you wouldn't have to split your assets in the divorce."

Flynn sank onto the sofa, burying his face in his trembling hands. The silence stretched between us, thick with the weight of five years of calculated cruelty finally coming due.

"Mabel..." he choked out, looking up at me with tears spilling over his bloodshot eyes. "Mabel, please. We have a child. Think of Clara. What will people say when her father is sent to prison? How will she grow up with that shame?"

The rage that flared inside me was cold and pure.

"You didn't think of Clara when you spent her college fund on another woman's penthouse," I whispered, leaning down so he could see the utter absence of mercy in my eyes. "You didn't think of Clara when you tried to brand her mother as mentally unfit just to save your stock price. You used our daughter as a human shield every time you wanted to control me."

"I was sick! I had an addiction to the pressure, to the power!" Flynn sobbed, dropping to his knees on the carpet before me, reaching out to grasp the hem of my coat. "I'll go to rehab! I'll give up the CEO position! I'll let you run the board! Just don't send me to prison, Mabel! Please... I'm your husband. We built this together!"

I pulled my coat from his grasp and stood straight.

"You sign the divestment agreement," I told him, looking down at the man who had once made me feel guilty for buying a five-dollar coffee. "You surrender all remaining shares back to the corporate treasury at par value. You agree to a complete, uncontested divorce with sole legal and physical custody granted to me. You walk away with nothing but the clothes on your back and the personal debts you incurred."

"And if I don't?" he whispered, his voice trembling violently.