The moment my husband’s mistress struck my five-year-old daughter hard enough to knock two baby teeth onto the marble floor, something inside me went completely still. Spencer barely looked up before saying, “Stop making such a big deal out of it,” while Hazel stood there bleeding—and that was the moment I decided I was done protecting any of them.

It was 2:00 AM, twelve hours after the Grand Pinnacle Gala had ended in catastrophic ruin for the Albright family. Inside a sterile, fluorescent-lit interrogation room, Spencer Albright sat at a heavy metal table, his bespoke tuxedo wrinkled and stained with dried champagne, his hair matted with sweat. His hands were locked in heavy steel handcuffs bolted directly to the center of the table.

The heavy steel door swung open, and I walked in, wearing a sharp, tailored white pantsuit, flanked by Thomas and two federal prosecutors carrying thick accordion folders.

I sat down on the opposite side of the table, resting my hands neatly over the polished steel surface.

Spencer looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his face hollowed out by panic and lack of sleep. The arrogant, untouchable real estate mogul of Bel Air was entirely gone. All that remained was a broken, desperate man.

“Gwen,” Spencer rasped, his voice cracking painfully. “Please... please, Gwen. You have to call your father off. You have to tell the prosecutors there’s been a mistake. We have a family! We have six years together!”

“Six years,” I repeated softly, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. “Six years of telling me I was a freeloader. Six years of rationing my credit cards while you funded Cassandra’s shopping sprees. Six years of watching your mother demean me, and six years of letting your arrogance convince you that you were untouchable.”

“I was an idiot!” Spencer cried, slamming his handcuffed wrists against the table, rattling the steel bolts. “I made mistakes! I had an affair! But jail, Gwen? Total financial destruction? You’re ruining my life over a couple of bruises on a kid?!”

The moment he said a couple of bruises on a kid, something inside me snapped—not into anger, but into absolute, razor-sharp finality.

I didn't yell. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, looking him straight in the eye.

“You didn't just bruise her, Spencer. You watched Cassandra strike her hard enough to knock her baby teeth out onto the floor. And your only response was to tell me to control my child because she was ruining Cassandra’s dress.”

Spencer swallowed hard, shrinking back into his chair.

“That was the last mistake you’ll ever make,” I continued smoothly. “The prosecutors have sixty-four counts of wire fraud, tax evasion, shell-company laundering, and extortion documented against you. The federal sentencing guidelines for your tier of corporate crime carry a minimum of twenty-five years without parole. And because your mother actively aided and abetted your corporate shell operations, the DOJ has added her to the primary indictment as well.”

“My... my mother?” Spencer gasped. “You’re sending my mother to prison too?!”

“She earned every single day of it,” I said coldly, signaling to the federal prosecutor standing behind me.

The prosecutor dropped a thick stack of papers onto the table right in front of Spencer.

“What is this?” Spencer whispered.

“Your final divorce settlement and asset forfeiture agreement,” I said. “You relinquish all parental rights to Hazel. You waive any claim to marital property—which, as it turns out, was entirely backed by Crawford capital from the beginning anyway. And you sign a full confession detailing every fraudulent transaction you executed at Albright Enterprises.”

Spencer stared at the papers, his hands trembling violently. “And if I refuse to sign?”

“Then you spend the next six months in general population awaiting trial while my father’s legal team ensures you never see a single penny, a single pillow, or a single visitor for the rest of your natural life,” I said simply. “Choose wisely, Spencer. It’s the last choice you’ll ever get to make for yourself.”

With shaking fingers, Spencer picked up the pen. He didn't read the terms. He didn't negotiate. He simply signed his name at the bottom of the page in a messy, jagged scrawl, letting the pen drop from his numb fingers.

I stood up, smoothing the jacket of my white pantsuit, and looked down at my ex-husband one last time.