My husband’s mistress lifted her empty champagne glass toward me at our twentieth-anniversary gala and smiled as if I were part of the staff.

The emergency meeting of the institutional shareholders was scheduled for 10:00 AM in the grand auditorium of the New York Stock Exchange.

At 8:30 AM, while I was reviewing the restructuring presentation in the private holding suite backstage, the door swung open.

Genevieve Croft stood in the doorway.

She looked like a shadow of the woman who had sneered at me across the champagne fountain seven days ago. The ivory Chanel suit was gone; she wore a drab, oversized wool coat, jeans, and flat leather shoes. Her hair was pulled back into a messy, damp knot. She wore no makeup, and beneath her hollow eyes were deep, violet bruises of exhaustion and terror.

Two private security guards moved instantly to block her, but I held up a hand.

"Leave us," I instructed.

The guards hesitated, then backed out of the room, closing the heavy soundproof door behind them.

Genevieve stood there, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, her shoulders hunched as if trying to shrink away from the harsh overhead fluorescent lighting.

"What do you want, Genevieve?" I asked, my voice calm, devoid of anger.

Her lips trembled. A tear slipped down her pale cheek, cutting a path through the dust on her skin.

"I... I came to say I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I know that sounds pathetic. I know you hate me. But... you were right. You were right about everything."

I leaned back against the mahogany desk, crossing my arms. "I don't hate you, Genevieve. To hate you, I would have had to value your existence in my life. You were merely an instrument Julian used to test my limits."

A ragged sob broke from her chest. She stepped forward, falling onto her knees right there on the commercial carpet, her hands clutching at her face.

"He told me he loved me," she wept, her body shaking violently. "He told me you were cold, that you were dead inside, that you had forced him into a loveless marriage for your family’s social standing. He told me that once the new entity was launched in Dubai, we would be married on the Amalfi coast. I believed him, Clara! I was so stupid... I thought I was special."

"You weren't stupid, Genevieve," I said, looking down at her crumpled form without moving an inch closer. "You were greedy. You saw a shortcut to power and wealth, and you didn't care whose bones you had to walk across to get there."

"The feds took my passport," she choked out, looking up at me with red, terrified eyes. "They seized my apartment in Soho. My parents had to mortgage their house in Ohio just to pay the retainer for my defense attorney. Julian won't take my calls. He texted me yesterday and told me that if I testified, he would make sure I never worked in this country again."

"Julian can't even pay for a cup of coffee at Starbucks, Genevieve. His threats are empty wind."

"Will you... will you help me?" she begged, her voice shrinking to a tiny, desperate whimper. "If I tell the SEC everything—if I testify against him in open court—can you talk to the U.S. Attorney? Alexander Hayes knows the prosecutor. Please, Clara. I'm twenty-nine years old. I can't go to federal prison. Please."

I looked at the woman who had handed me an empty champagne glass with contempt. The temptation to let her drown was real. It was human. It was the primal urge to see an enemy crushed beneath the wheels of their own hubris.

But vengeance without purpose is merely another form of vanity.

"Stand up," I said coldly.

Genevieve blinked, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her coat, and slowly scrambled to her feet, leaning against the wall for support.

"You will go to the U.S. Attorney's office at 1:00 PM today," I said, my voice measured and authoritative. "You will sign a full, unredacted proffer agreement. You will detail every single transfer, every password, every conversation Julian had regarding the Seychelles accounts."

"I will. I swear I will."

"And in return," I continued, "Alexander Hayes will inform the prosecutor that Vance Global will not seek restitution against you personally for the four million dollars diverted through G. Croft Holdings. The company will absorb the loss as an executive fraud charge."

Genevieve gasped, her knees nearly buckling again. "You... you won't sue me?"

"You have nothing left to sue for, Genevieve," I said bluntly. "You are broke, discredited, and your name is toxic on Wall Street. Living with the absolute ruin of your ambitions is a far more fitting punishment than four years in a minimum-security camp."

I walked toward the door, my heels clicking firmly against the floor. I placed my hand on the doorknob, then stopped and looked back at her.

"One more thing," I said.

Genevieve looked up, holding her breath.

"The next time someone hands you an empty glass, Miss Croft," I whispered, "remember that it is only empty because the person who drank from it left you the dregs."