The shock of the ice-cold water knocked the breath clean out of my lungs.

Two months later.

The high-security courtroom of the Southern District of New York was packed to the brim with international press, financial analysts, and high-society observers.

Judge Robert Vance—no relation to Jessica, much to her misfortune—banged his gavel down three times, silencing the packed gallery.

Standing before the defense bench were Brendan Morrison, Diane Morrison, and Jessica Vance.

They were dressed in matching orange prison jumpsuits, their wrists shackled to chains wrapped around their waists. Brendan had lost twenty pounds; his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes made him look like a ghost of the arrogant executive he had once been. Diane was weeping silently, her hands trembling so hard the chains clattered rhythmically against the wooden table. Jessica kept her head down, staring at the floor to avoid the blinding camera flashes coming from the press gallery.

I sat in the front row of the executive observation bench.

I was eight months pregnant now, my belly round and beautifully prominent beneath a tailored emerald-green silk dress. My skin was glowing with radiant health. On either side of me sat Arthur Bell and Mateo Salgado—my protectors, my loyal counselors, the men who had stood between me and the wolves.

Judge Vance cleared his throat, peering over his glasses at the defendants.

“In all my thirty years on the federal bench,” the judge began, his deep voice carrying the full weight of the law, “I have rarely seen a case marked by such grotesque greed, moral bankruptcy, and cruelty. Brendan Morrison, you abused your executive position to loot forty-two million dollars from the company that sheltered you. But far worse than your financial crimes was your complete absence of human decency toward the woman who gave you everything.”

The judge flipped through the sentencing files.

“On counts one through twelve of wire fraud and grand larceny: Brendan Morrison, you are hereby sentenced to twenty-two years in federal custody, without the possibility of parole, to be served at the medium-security penitentiary in Otisville.”

Brendan let out a strangled groan, his knees giving out as the bailiffs caught him under the arms.

“Jessica Vance: in consideration of your cooperation with the government, you are sentenced to nine years in federal custody and ordered to pay restitution of sixteen million dollars.”

Jessica buried her face in her shackled hands, sobbing hysterically.

“And Diane Morrison,” the judge continued, his eyes fixing on the trembling older woman. “For your complicity in money laundering, tax fraud, and the misdemeanor assault on a pregnant individual: you are sentenced to four years in federal custody, followed by five years of supervised probation and five hundred hours of mandatory community service at a municipal homeless shelter.”

“No! Please!” Diane wailed, falling against the table. “Not the shelters! Anything but the shelters!”

The gavel came down with a final, thunderous strike.

*BAM.*

“Court is adjourned.”

As the marshals led the three prisoners toward the holding cells, Brendan twisted his head back one last time. He caught my eye across the crowded courtroom.

There was no pride left in him. No anger. Only the absolute, crushing realization that he had held heaven in his hands, mistook it for dust, and traded it for an eternity in hell.

I didn't smile. I didn't gloat.