I didn’t go home. I drove straight to the glass-encased headquarters of Whitaker Construction in downtown Cincinnati.

The fallout from the press conference was swift, brutal, and unforgiving.

Within twenty-four hours, the state prosecutor issued formal arrest warrants for Martin Collins and Todd Collins for grand theft, tax evasion, and corporate fraud.

Deputies arrived at Martin’s Indian Hill estate early on Thursday morning. The luxury cars parked in the circular drive were loaded onto tow trucks. Assets were seized, bank accounts frozen, and credit lines terminated.

The man who had spent eight years bragging about his wealth and making fun of my "trash truck" was led down his grand marble staircase in handcuffs, wearing a stained bathrobe, crying in front of local news crews.

Meanwhile, Claire’s lavish world completely evaporated.

Because all joint assets were frozen due to the criminal investigation into her fraudulent expense approvals, she couldn't pay her high-end retainers. Her credit cards were declined at restaurants, her luxury apartment lease was terminated due to non-payment, and her high-society friends completely cut ties with her to avoid being associated with the scandal.

On Friday afternoon, while I was sitting in my office working on our new $50 million municipal stadium expansion project, my assistant announced that Claire was in the lobby, begging for five minutes.

"Should I have security remove her, Mr. Whitaker?" my assistant asked.

I thought for a moment. "No. Let her in."

Claire walked into my office. But she didn't look like the glamorous, proud woman who had handed me divorce papers on Christmas Eve.

She was wearing plain, worn-out clothing, her hair was unwashed, and deep dark circles sat under her swollen eyes. She looked broken.

"Daniel..." she choked out, her voice trembling. "Please... you have to stop this. They’re going to send my father to prison. He’s sixty-five years old! He won't survive federal prison!"

"He should have thought about that before he stole $5 million and locked my child out in the snow," I replied, not even looking up from the blueprint blueprints on my desk.

"I didn't know about the fraud!" she cried, rushing toward my desk. "I swear I didn't know! I just signed what Dad told me to sign! I loved you, Daniel! Please remember our eight years together!"

I slowly lifted my head and looked at her with pure, unadulterated coldness.

"You loved me, Claire?" I asked softly. "Or did you love the image of a weak, quiet husband you could control while your family drained my bank accounts? Did you love me when you sat at that Christmas dinner table, drinking champagne, while my daughter was crying outside in the dark?"

"I made a mistake!" she sobbed, falling to her knees beside my desk. "I was stupid! I was arrogant! I’ll sign whatever you want! I’ll drop the divorce demands! I’ll forfeit everything! Just drop the criminal charges against my family! Please, Daniel, I’m begging you on my knees!"

I looked down at her—the woman who had humiliated me for nearly a decade, now weeping at my feet.

"Get up, Claire," I said quietly.