My husband fastened the last medevac harness across his mistress’s chest while I lay twenty feet away waiting for the heart surgeon who could keep me alive.

By Wednesday morning, six days after my surgery, I was discharged from St. Vincent Heart Center.

Dr. Marcus Vance walked me out to the main lobby himself. I didn't need a wheelchair; I walked on my own two feet, dressed in a comfortable cashmere sweater and jeans, holding my sister’s arm.

"Your recovery is miraculous, Odette," Dr. Vance said, shaking my hand warmly at the entrance doors. "Just remember: no heavy lifting for six weeks, take your blood thinners religiously, and come back to see me in three weeks for a follow-up echo."

"Thank you, Dr. Vance," I said softly. "For everything."

"Give him hell in court," Dr. Vance smiled warmly, turning back toward the elevators.

Nadine drove me straight to David Croft’s law office in downtown Jefferson City. We were meeting with Assistant District Attorney Sarah Jenkins, the lead prosecutor assigned to the criminal case against Everett.

The conference room was bright, filled with sunlight streaming through large mahogany-framed windows. ADA Jenkins, a sharp woman in her early fortnight with dark suits and an intense, no-nonsense demeanor, sat at the head of the table.

"Mrs. Lane," ADA Jenkins greeted me, shaking my hand gently. "I'm glad to see you looking so well. We have a major update on your husband."

"Did he try to flee?" Nadine asked as we took our seats.

"He tried," ADA Jenkins confirmed, pulling a set of police mugshots out of a red manila folder and placing them on the table.

In the photos, Everett looked broken. His hair was greasy, his eyes bloodshot and sunken, wearing an orange county jail jumpsuit.

"Where did they catch him?" I asked, staring at the face of the man I had spent thirteen years loving, feeling zero emotion left in my heart.

"At a private airstrip twenty miles west of Columbia," ADA Jenkins explained. "He had paid ten thousand dollars in cash to a charter pilot to fly him to a non-extradition country in South America. But because Mr. Croft had already flagged his passport and registered the emergency felony warrant, federal marshals picked him up before he even boarded the aircraft."

David Croft leaned back in his leather chair, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "And the charges?"

"Grand larceny, wire fraud, felony forgery, and reckless endangerment resulting in extreme bodily harm," ADA Jenkins read off the official charging document. "Given the evidence—including the helipad security footage, Maren Vale's sworn testimony, and the forged healthcare documents—we are looking at a mandatory minimum sentence of fifteen to twenty-five years in state prison."

I took a deep, steady breath. My lungs expanded fully, comfortably, without a hint of fluid or pain.

"Is he offering a plea?" I asked.

"His defense attorney tried to ask for five years with parole eligibility," ADA Jenkins scoffed softly. "I told him to take a walk. We are going to trial unless he pleads guilty to every single count with zero possibility of early release."

"Don't give him a deal," I said, looking ADA Jenkins dead in the eye. "I want him to stand in front of a judge and hear every detail of what he did read into the public record."

"Consider it done," ADA Jenkins nodded firmly. "Now, as for the civil side..."

David Croft tapped his pen on the table. "We have already executed a full forfeiture order on his remaining bank accounts. The two hundred and eighty thousand dollars he stole has been fully recovered from his seized assets, along with an additional five hundred thousand dollars in punitive damages awarded through our emergency civil suit."

"What about his share of our marital house?" I asked.

"He forfeited all claims to real estate as part of his bail revocation agreement," David revealed. "You hold one hundred percent of the marital home, one hundred percent of the Riverstone property trust, and every stock account associated with your marriage. Everett Lane is officially destitute."