Chapter 12
The trial lasted three days.
Dylan showed up in an ill-fitting suit, visibly thinner, with a public defender who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
I sat in the gallery with Callum. Not because I needed to be there, but because I wanted to watch it end.
The evidence was damning. Callum's forensic team had been meticulous. Wire transfers. Falsified invoices. Shell companies with Dylan's name buried in the paperwork. The embezzled total came to over twelve million dollars.
On day two, Amber was called as a witness.
She'd been subpoenaed. Couldn't refuse. When she took the stand, she didn't look at Dylan once.
"Ms. Winters," the prosecutor said. "Were you aware of Mr. Lawson's financial activities during your relationship?"
Amber's eyes flickered. "He mentioned things. Business things. I didn't understand most of it."
"Did he ever ask you to sign documents on his behalf?"
A pause. "Yes."
"Did you know what those documents were?"
"No." Her voice was barely audible. "He said they were routine."
The prosecutor showed her a shell company registration with her signature on it. Amber's face drained of color.
"I didn't know," she whispered. "I swear I didn't know."
Whether she did or not, her signature connected her to the fraud. By the end of the day, she'd been named as a co-conspirator. Her own charges were pending.
Dylan watched the whole thing with dead eyes. No outbursts. No dramatics. Just a man watching his world collapse in real time.
On day three, the verdict came.
Guilty on all counts.
The judge sentenced him to eight years. Dylan stood motionless as the gavel came down. Then, as the bailiff moved to escort him out, he turned and looked directly at me.
I expected hatred. Expected rage.
What I saw was emptiness.
He mouthed something. I couldn't read it. Didn't try.
The bailiff led him away.
It was over.
Outside the courthouse, reporters swarmed. Callum's security created a path for us to the car. Questions flew from every direction.
"Serena! How do you feel about the verdict?"
"Mr. Reed, any comment on the sentencing?"
I stopped. Turned to the cameras.
"Justice was served," I said. "I'm moving forward. I'd appreciate it if everyone else did too."
Clean. Simple. Final.
In the car, Callum loosened his tie.
"How do you feel?" he asked. Not the reporters' version of the question. The real one.
I thought about it.
"Light," I said. "I feel light."
He smiled, took my hand, and pressed his lips to my knuckles.
"Good."
We drove home in comfortable silence. The city passed by, ordinary and beautiful and entirely ours.
That night, I sat in the library of our new brownstone—because of course we'd already moved in—curled in an armchair with a glass of wine.
Callum found me there, leaning against the doorframe with that half-smile I'd grown addicted to.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"About how six months ago, I was trying to convince myself that settling was the same as being happy."
He crossed the room and crouched beside my chair.
"And now?"
"Now I know the difference."
He kissed my forehead. Soft. Reverent.
"I'm glad you walked down that aisle and kept going," he said.
"Best walk of my life."
He laughed. And in the quiet warmth of our library, surrounded by books and firelight and the man who never made me doubt, I felt it.
Peace.
But peace, I was learning, didn't mean the world stopped moving.
My phone lit up on the side table. A text from Victoria.
[Dinner Sunday. I have news. It's about the family. Both of you need to be there.]
Dylan showed up in an ill-fitting suit, visibly thinner, with a public defender who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
I sat in the gallery with Callum. Not because I needed to be there, but because I wanted to watch it end.
The evidence was damning. Callum's forensic team had been meticulous. Wire transfers. Falsified invoices. Shell companies with Dylan's name buried in the paperwork. The embezzled total came to over twelve million dollars.
On day two, Amber was called as a witness.
She'd been subpoenaed. Couldn't refuse. When she took the stand, she didn't look at Dylan once.
"Ms. Winters," the prosecutor said. "Were you aware of Mr. Lawson's financial activities during your relationship?"
Amber's eyes flickered. "He mentioned things. Business things. I didn't understand most of it."
"Did he ever ask you to sign documents on his behalf?"
A pause. "Yes."
"Did you know what those documents were?"
"No." Her voice was barely audible. "He said they were routine."
The prosecutor showed her a shell company registration with her signature on it. Amber's face drained of color.
"I didn't know," she whispered. "I swear I didn't know."
Whether she did or not, her signature connected her to the fraud. By the end of the day, she'd been named as a co-conspirator. Her own charges were pending.
Dylan watched the whole thing with dead eyes. No outbursts. No dramatics. Just a man watching his world collapse in real time.
On day three, the verdict came.
Guilty on all counts.
The judge sentenced him to eight years. Dylan stood motionless as the gavel came down. Then, as the bailiff moved to escort him out, he turned and looked directly at me.
I expected hatred. Expected rage.
What I saw was emptiness.
He mouthed something. I couldn't read it. Didn't try.
The bailiff led him away.
It was over.
Outside the courthouse, reporters swarmed. Callum's security created a path for us to the car. Questions flew from every direction.
"Serena! How do you feel about the verdict?"
"Mr. Reed, any comment on the sentencing?"
I stopped. Turned to the cameras.
"Justice was served," I said. "I'm moving forward. I'd appreciate it if everyone else did too."
Clean. Simple. Final.
In the car, Callum loosened his tie.
"How do you feel?" he asked. Not the reporters' version of the question. The real one.
I thought about it.
"Light," I said. "I feel light."
He smiled, took my hand, and pressed his lips to my knuckles.
"Good."
We drove home in comfortable silence. The city passed by, ordinary and beautiful and entirely ours.
That night, I sat in the library of our new brownstone—because of course we'd already moved in—curled in an armchair with a glass of wine.
Callum found me there, leaning against the doorframe with that half-smile I'd grown addicted to.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"About how six months ago, I was trying to convince myself that settling was the same as being happy."
He crossed the room and crouched beside my chair.
"And now?"
"Now I know the difference."
He kissed my forehead. Soft. Reverent.
"I'm glad you walked down that aisle and kept going," he said.
"Best walk of my life."
He laughed. And in the quiet warmth of our library, surrounded by books and firelight and the man who never made me doubt, I felt it.
Peace.
But peace, I was learning, didn't mean the world stopped moving.
My phone lit up on the side table. A text from Victoria.
[Dinner Sunday. I have news. It's about the family. Both of you need to be there.]