“Vivian might face charges too. She was receiving stolen property, and her name is on the LLC hiding the assets. At minimum, her career at Thornbridge is over.”
“Also good.”
Maya reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Are you okay?”
I looked down at the sapphire bracelet. “No. But I will be.”
The next six months were a brutal war of attrition.
Marcus tried everything. He begged. He threatened. He offered settlements that were insulting. His lawyer was expensive, a bulldog from a big firm.
Mine was better.
Maya connected me with a forensic divorce specialist. We tore his financials apart. The handwriting expert testified. The forged Nevada papers were thrown out with prejudice. We started fresh in Massachusetts court, where I had the moral and legal high ground.
Marcus was fired from Thornbridge within the week. The fraud investigation found enough irregularities to recommend charges. He eventually pleaded down to probation and massive restitution, but his reputation in Boston’s financial sector was incinerated.
Vivian lost her job. She moved back to New York, vanishing into the anonymity of a mid-tier firm.
The divorce was finalized in June. I got the brownstone. I got half of Marcus’s retirement accounts. I got a settlement that reflected six years of marriage plus punitive damages for fraud.
But winning didn’t feel like a parade. It felt like quiet survival.
In August, I went back to the gallery full-time. I threw myself into curating. I created an exhibition titled “After Midnight,” featuring artists who created their best work in the wake of trauma. It opened in September to rave reviews.
I started therapy. I finally allowed myself to grieve my father, a process Marcus’s betrayal had stolen from me. I adopted a cat named Rothko, a chaotic orange tabby who knocked over my coffee and slept on my feet.
On New Year’s Eve, exactly one year later, Maya invited me to her house.
It was quiet. Just Maya, her husband, and a few close friends. We played board games. We ate too much artisan cheese. We drank cider instead of champagne.
At 11:50 PM, Maya pulled me aside into the kitchen.
“How are you doing?” she asked. “Really?”
