Chapter 8 - THE TERMS OF SURRENDERI stared at the man across the table, my fingers trembling as they rested on the manila folder.
"Sarah's lawyer?" I sneered, though the defiance felt hollow in my throat. "She doesn't need a divorce lawyer anymore, I'm already facing twenty years in federal prison. What does she want? My blood?"
Julian Vance opened a matching folder on his side of the glass, meticulously smoothing out a single sheet of paper.
"Not your blood, Mr. Dalton. Your signature," he replied smoothly.
"My signature for what?"
"A complete, irrevocable relinquishment of parental rights, a full waiver of any claim to marital or corporate assets, and an immediate guilty plea to the federal indictments without trial, in exchange for a recommendation of minimum sentencing."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
"No," I whispered, shaking my head violently. "No way. I give up my freedom, I give up everything I built, and you want me to give up my son forever? Absolutely not. I'll take my chances at trial."
Julian didn't blink. He calmly closed his folder and slid a single eight-by-ten glossy photograph through the slot beneath the glass.
I looked down.
It was a picture of Ethan. He was wearing a soft blue onesie, smiling wide and bright, being held in the arms of an older woman—Sarah’s mother, Margaret, standing on the sunlit deck of a gorgeous coastal home overlooking the Pacific Ocean, thousands of miles away from Seattle.
"At trial, Mr. Dalton, your wife's legal team will present testimony from your mistress, your corporate partners, and financial auditors detailing every fraudulent transaction you executed over the past five years," Julian said, his voice quiet and unrelenting. "You will be convicted on all twelve counts. You will serve fifteen to twenty years in a maximum-security federal penitentiary. And when you get out, an adult man named Ethan will walk this earth without ever knowing your name, your face, or your voice."
He tapped his finger against the photograph.
"Or... you sign this document. You take responsibility for your actions. And once every three years, through a secure, third-party intermediary, your wife will permit a single, unedited photograph of your son to be delivered to your prison address, so you can watch him grow from a distance."
I stared at the photograph. The baby's bright, innocent eyes seemed to look right through me, piercing the dark, selfish core of everything I had become.
May you like
The silence in the booth stretched on for an eternity.
My hands shook violently as I picked up the plastic pen resting beside the folder.
