Chapter 9 - A Toast to Truth
One year after the rooftop slap.
The autumn air in Manhattan was crisp and clear. The trees in Central Park were glowing in vibrant shades of gold, amber, and crimson.
I hosted the grand opening launch party for Vance Financial Intelligence on the private rooftop terrace of the Chrysler Building.
Over two hundred guests filled the glass venue—high-ranking federal prosecutors, top Manhattan defense attorneys, Fortune 500 CEOs, and prominent financial journalists.
I wore an exquisite emerald-green silk evening gown, my hair styled in soft waves, my skin radiant. On my face, there was no trace of a bruise—only the radiant, unshakeable glow of a woman who owned her own destiny.
My lead attorney, Victoria Sterling, walked up beside me, handing me a glass of vintage champagne.
"Look at this room, Claire," Victoria whispered, pointing around the terrace. "Half of Wall Street is here to celebrate you."
"They're here because they know that if they lie, I'll find out," I laughed gently, clinking my glass against hers.
Across the room, Warren Pike stood talking to a group of international investors, pointing toward me with deep admiration. Jenny, Ethan's former assistant who I had hired as my head of administrative operations, was seamlessly organizing the media team.
My phone chimed in my clutch.
It was an automated notification from the Federal Bureau of Prisons:
Inmate: Vance, Ethan (ID: 99482-019)
Status: Serving Sentence — Federal Correctional Institution, Otisville
Work Detail: Maintenance / Laundry Operations
I looked at the notification for a second.
Ethan was spending his evening folding military uniforms in a federal prison laundry room, living on standardized meals and rigid schedules, paying off his restitution debt cent by cent.
May you like
I closed the phone screen and set it back inside my clutch.
I felt no urge to gloat. I felt no lingering pain. The ghost of Ethan Vance had completely left my life, leaving behind only the clear, solid reality of my own success.
