The ink on my divorce decree was still wet, but the celebration on the courthouse steps had already begun.

The federal detention facility in downtown San Antonio was a grim, brutalist fortress of gray concrete, razor wire, and cold fluorescent lighting.

Two weeks after his arrest, Evan Sterling sat in the prison’s secure visitation booth behind a thick pane of reinforced Plexiglas, staring at his own reflection with hollow, deadened eyes. The custom Brioni suits were gone, replaced by a coarse orange jumpsuit with inmate numbers stenciled across the chest in black ink. His hair, usually meticulously styled with pomade, fell unwashed and graying around his hollow cheeks.

The heavy metal door clicked open, and Barbara was led into the booth by a correctional officer.

She looked no better. Her emerald suit was permanently stained from the rain on the night of her arrest, and her posture was permanently slumped in defeat. She sat down on the metal stool opposite Evan, her hands trembling as she gripped the heavy plastic telephone receiver.

Evan lifted his receiver with a sluggish motion, pressing it against his ear. Barbara did the same.

“Mom,” Evan’s voice rasped through the audio speaker, devoid of its old arrogant inflection. “Did you talk to the defense attorney? Did he find a loophole in the asset seizure?”

Barbara shook her head slowly, a tear tracing a clean path through the powder caked on her cheek. “There are no loopholes, Evan. The federal prosecutor has binders of physical evidence. Not just the bank transfers to Silver Oak, but the original corporate bylaws, the trust deeds, and... and father’s old personal journals.”

Evan slammed his free fist against the metal table, the sound echoing through the small booth. “That bitch! Sarah planned this for years! She sat across the breakfast table from me every morning acting like a dutiful wife while she was sharpening a knife behind my back!”

“We underestimated her, Evan,” Barbara whispered, her voice cracking with bitterness. “Your father always warned us. He said she had his mind and his backbone. We thought money and social standing were enough to insulate us. We were wrong.”

“What about Kelsey?” Evan asked, his eyes darting nervously toward the guard standing by the door. “Have you heard from her? Is she taking care of the baby?”

Barbara let out a harsh, humorless laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across pavement.

“Kelsey?” Barbara sneered. “Kelsey packed her bags and moved back in with her parents in El Paso three days after the arrest. She realized you couldn't buy her designer handbags anymore, and she blocked your phone number across every platform. She doesn't care about you, Evan. She never did.”

The words hit Evan like a physical blow. He leaned back against the concrete wall, sliding down slightly until the plastic receiver cord stretched taut. The empire he had built on lies, the mistress he had traded a decade of marriage for, the mother who had enabled his worst impulses—it had all evaporated into thin air, leaving him completely, utterly alone in a concrete box.

“What are we going to do, Mom?” Evan whispered, a pathetic tremor in his voice. “The prosecutor is offering a plea deal, but it includes twelve years in federal prison with no parole. Twelve years!”