CHAPTER 4: The Art of the Trap
Six months later, the glass towers of downtown Chicago shimmered under a gray winter sky.
Inside a high-security conference room on the 42nd floor of the federal building, I sat quietly, rocking a chubby, healthy, six-month-old Leo in my arms. He was smiling, chewing on a wooden teething ring, completely unaware of the storm raging around him.
I looked different now. The exhausted, bleeding woman in the sweatpants was gone. I wore a tailored emerald-green suit, my skin was glowing, and my posture was commanding. My recovery had been long and difficult, but with the money from my half of the house sale and the recovered assets from Derek’s secret account, I had hired the best postpartum medical specialists, a top-tier nanny, and a fierce legal team.
The door opened, and two federal federal marshals walked in, followed by Derek and his public defender.
I almost didn't recognize him.
Derek had lost at least twenty pounds. The expensive cologne was gone, replaced by the distinct, sterile smell of a county jail holding cell. He was wearing a orange jumpsuit, his hands loosely cuffed in front of him.
When his eyes met mine, a flash of his old, arrogant anger ignited.
"Sienna," he breathed, stepping toward me before a marshal firmly gripped his shoulder, forcing him into a chair across the table. "Look at me. Look what you did to me. You stole my life!"
I didn't blink. I didn't raise my voice. I simply adjusted Leo on my lap.
"You stole your own life, Derek. You just used my intelligence to pay for it," I said smoothly.
His defense attorney, a tired-looking man named Mr. Vance (no relation to Madison, ironically), cleared his throat. "Mrs. Hathaway, my client is prepared to sign over all remaining claims to any shared properties and waive all custody rights to the child, provided you withdraw your formal victim impact statement and request that the federal prosecutor lower the charges from grand larceny to simple embezzlement."
Derek looked at me, his eyes begging. "Please, Sienna. For Leo’s sake. You don't want his father to be a convicted felon. I made a mistake. I was overwhelmed. The pressure of being the provider—"
"Stop," I interrupted, raising a single hand.
The room went dead silent.
"You didn't leave because you were overwhelmed, Derek. You left because you thought I was broken," I said, my voice cutting through the room like a scalpel. "You thought that because my body had been sliced open to bring our son into this world, my mind had gone soft. You thought that because I grew up with nothing, I would be afraid to lose what you gave me."
I leaned forward, looking directly into his desperate eyes.
"But you forgot who I was before I became your wife. I don't need you to protect me. And Leo doesn't need a father who tells his mother to call him 'only if someone is dead' while she’s bleeding on the floor."
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"I’m sorry," he whispered, a tear finally escaping his eye. "Sienna, please."
"The prosecution isn't lowering the charges, Derek. In fact, they can't." I smiled, turning to my attorney, who pulled out a fresh stack of documents. "Because we just discovered something else during the final asset liquidation."
