The red wine hit my face before my mind could register Garrett’s hand moving.

Sixty days after the gavel fell in Courtroom 4B, the final remnants of the Vance family vanity were placed on the auction block at Sotheby’s on York Avenue.

Under the terms of the federal restitution order, every luxury asset, private vehicle, designer wardrobe, and piece of jewelry seized from Garrett and Vivian was cataloged for public sale, with one hundred percent of the proceeds designated to the Montgomery Logistics Employee Pension and Education Foundation.

The main auction gallery was packed with art collectors, antique dealers, and Manhattan socialites looking to acquire high-end goods at distressed prices.

I sat in the private executive skybox overlooking the sales floor, accompanied by Elena and Frank Sterling. We sipped iced sparkling water and watched the spectacle unfold on the electronic bidding boards below.

"Lot 42," the British auctioneer announced, his voice crisp and rhythmic over the sound system. "A rare Patek Philippe Grand Complications perpetual calendar in rose gold, formerly the property of Mr. Garrett Vance. Bidding opens at eighty thousand dollars."

The electronic paddle boards on the floor lit up immediately.

*“Eighty-five thousand... ninety thousand... ninety-five... one hundred and ten thousand to the gentleman in the fourth row... sold for one hundred and twenty thousand dollars!”*

*Bang!*

"That watch was purchased with funds stolen from our maritime fuel hedging account last November," Frank Sterling noted, making a neat checkmark on his tablet. "That single sale just fully funded four university scholarships for our dockworkers' children in Newark."

"Keep tallying, Frank," I said, a genuine smile gracing my face. "Let’s see how much good we can build out of their vanity."

Next came the luxury vehicles.

Garrett’s custom matte-black Porsche 911 GT3: sold for two hundred and forty thousand dollars. Vivian’s vintage Mercedes SL convertible: sold for ninety thousand dollars. Chloe Campbell’s surrendered white Porsche Macan: sold for sixty-five thousand dollars.

Then came Vivian’s pride and joy: her personal jewelry collection.

Her diamond tennis necklaces, her Cartier panther rings, her collection of vintage European brooches—pieces she had spent decades flaunting at country club galas to prove she was better than everyone else—were paraded across the rotating velvet display pedestals before hundreds of indifferent buyers.

"Lot 108," the auctioneer called out. "A three-strand natural South Sea pearl choker featuring an antique platinum and sapphire clasp. Formerly the property of Mrs. Vivian Vance."

My breath caught slightly.

It was the very necklace she had been wearing at L’Étoile. The pearls she had smugly fingered while red wine was splashed across my face. The pearls that had scattered into the gutter outside my penthouse when she was thrown onto the street.

"Bidding opens at thirty thousand dollars," the auctioneer stated.

A bidding war broke out between a Texas oil magnate on the telephone and a private collector from London.

*“Thirty-five... forty... forty-five... fifty-five thousand... sold to the telephone bidder for sixty-two thousand dollars!”*

*Bang!*

I leaned back against the plush velvet seat of the skybox, watching the auction assistant place the pearls back into their black velvet case and carry them off the stage forever.

By 5:00 PM, the auction was concluded.

Frank Sterling turned his tablet toward me, his weathered face beaming with unprecedented pride.

"Total gross proceeds from the afternoon session, Mrs. Montgomery: three million one hundred and forty thousand dollars."

Three million dollars.

Garrett and Vivian had stolen two point four million. Through the auction of their personal luxuries, their foreign asset seizures, and the recovery of the Cayman accounts, the Montgomery Foundation had not only recouped every single stolen cent, but had generated a seven-hundred-thousand-dollar net surplus.

"Transfer eighty percent to the employee pension reserve immediately, Frank," I instructed, standing up and buttoning my cream silk blazer. "And place the remaining twenty percent into a permanent legal defense fund for domestic abuse survivors seeking financial independence."

"Right away, Claire," Frank said, closing his tablet with profound respect.

As I walked out of the Sotheby’s building onto the bustling sidewalk of York Avenue, the autumn air was crisp, cool, and fragrant with the scent of fallen leaves. The city was moving forward, vibrant and indifferent to the fallen.

Garrett was currently sitting in a federal penitentiary in Pennsylvania, learning how to scrub industrial kitchen kettles for twelve cents an hour. Vivian was locked inside a women’s correctional facility in West Virginia, her days of pearls and French champagne permanently replaced by polyester scrubs and five-minute phone calls.

They had wanted my fortune. They had wanted my pride.