Luke Vance slapped my hand away in the middle of the Plaza Hotel ballroom, hard enough to

Three months later.

The Southern District Court of New York was a fortress of cameras and legal teams.

The federal trial of *United States v. Luke Vance* had become the corporate trial of the century.

Luke Vance sat at the defense table, wearing a plain navy prison-issue suit provided by his public defender. His wrist cast was gone, replaced by a pale, thin scar where the bone had healed poorly in county jail. His hollow cheeks and sunken eyes bore no resemblance to the swaggering tech billionaire who had once slapped me in the Plaza ballroom.

I sat in the front row of the gallery, dressed in a tailored cream coat, flanked by Marcus Cole.

The courtroom fell silent as Judge Evelyn Wright took the bench.

“Will the defendant please rise,” the bailiff announced.

Luke stood up slowly, his knees visibly shaking, his public defender standing half a step away from him, clearly eager for the trial to end.

“On the charge of corporate securities fraud,” Judge Wright read, “the jury finds the defendant... guilty. On the charge of grand larceny... guilty. On the charge of attempted corporate espionage and illegal transfer of classified trade secrets... guilty. On the charge of aggravated domestic assault causing bodily injury... guilty.”

With each “guilty,” Luke flinched as if struck by a physical blow.

Judge Wright lowered her reading glasses, looking down at Luke from the bench with cold, unwavering severity.

“Mr. Vance, your conduct represents the absolute nadir of corporate arrogance and personal cruelty. You took the generosity of your spouse, the labor of your employees, and the trust of your investors, and squandered it on vanity, violence, and greed. You have shown zero remorse for your actions.”

She tapped her gavel once.

“I sentence you to twenty-four years at the United States Penitentiary, Pollock, with no eligibility for parole for the first eighteen years. Furthermore, a restitution order of forty-two million dollars is entered against you, payable upon release.”

*Twenty-four years.*

Luke’s knees buckled. He collapsed onto the defense table, sobbing hysterically.

“Samantha!” he wailed, twisting around in his handcuffs toward the gallery. “Samantha, please! Talk to the judge! Tell her twenty years is too long! Samantha, look at me!”

I didn't blink. I didn't flinch.

I looked at him the way one looks at a stranger on the subway. No hatred. No anger.

Just complete, absolute indifference.

Two federal marshals grabbed Luke beneath the arms, lifting him off his feet and dragging him backward through the heavy wooden door leading to the holding cells. His screams of terror and regret faded down the concrete corridor until the door banged shut, cutting off the noise forever.

Beside me, Marcus Cole closed his briefcase with a satisfying click.

“It’s over, Samantha,” he said softly.