The sound of snapping bone echoed through the vaulted arches of Saint Jude’s Cathedral, far louder than the screeching pipe organ had been seconds prior.

The final sentencing hearing took place at the Southern District Court of New York on a crisp November morning. Thousands of people lined the streets outside, holding signs of support for the Sterling Foundation.

I arrived in a sharp white tailored tuxedo suit—a deliberate, triumphant middle finger to the wedding dress Preston had ripped off my back three months ago. Flashbulbs exploded around me as Marcus ushered me through the courthouse doors.

Inside the courtroom, Preston sat in an orange jumpsuit, heavy chains binding his hands to his waist. His hair was messy, his eyes hollowed out with dark circles. Beside him, Eleanor sat weeping quietly into a paper handkerchief.

When the judge called me to the witness stand to deliver my victim impact statement, the courtroom fell into absolute silence.

I stood at the podium, looking directly into Preston’s terrified eyes.

"Three months ago, Preston Vance stood before an altar and declared that I was nothing more than a walking donor," I began, my voice ringing clear through the historic chamber. "He believed that wealth and deception could give him ownership over human life. He believed my silence was weakness."

I turned to face the judge.

"The Vance family did not just try to destroy me; they tried to hollow out the soul of my father's legacy. But they failed. They proved that no matter how deep corruption runs, truth and absolute resolve will tear it down to the foundation. I do not ask for mercy for these defendants. I ask for justice."