Daniel’s face drained of color. He looked from my father’s quiet, dignified posture—still wiping wine from his glasses—to my calm, unblinking gaze. He knew me. He knew that when I spoke in that low, even tone, the bridge wasn't just burning; it was already ash.

Madison walked in flanked by a high-priced defense attorney who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else on earth. She looked pale, her designer suit replaced by a plain, off-the-rack navy blazer, her hair pulled back into a simple, severe ponytail. The arrogance was entirely gone, replaced by a sullen, trapped desperation.

As I entered, her eyes locked onto mine. There was no smirk. No laughter. Just a cold, burning hatred that lacked any power to intimidate.

Cynthia Vance, my lawyer, laid out the deposition papers across the mahogany table. "For the record, Mrs. Harrington-Vance—soon to be solely Harrington—we are here to establish the chain of authorization regarding the forged wire transfers of May 14th."

Madison’s lawyer leaned over, whispering urgently into her ear. Madison nodded stiffly, staring at her hands folded tightly in her lap.

"State your name and relation to the primary corporate accounts," Cynthia instructed.

"Madison Harrington," she muttered, staring at the grain of the wooden table. "Former Vice President of Marketing and Operations for Harrington Enterprises."

"And did you, or did you not, affix electronic signatures matching those of corporate controllers to redirect twenty-eight thousand dollars into personal fashion vendor accounts?"

Silence stretched across the room. The ticking of the wall clock sounded deafening.

Madison swallowed hard, her lower lip trembling. She looked up, her gaze darting toward me for a fraction of a second, looking for a crack in my armor, a sign of mercy, anything.

She found nothing. Just the calm, unblinking focus of a woman who had already closed that chapter of her life.