Chapter 5 - The Deposition at Forty Wall Street
Three weeks later, the physical swelling from my surgical incision had subsided, replaced by a clean, thin purple scar across my lower abdomen. Under Nurse Hannah’s meticulous care, I was gaining my strength back, my skin had returned to its healthy glow, and Noah had gained two pounds, his bright dark eyes taking in the world with calm curiosity.
On a crisp October morning, I arrived at Forty Wall Street—the glass-and-steel skyscraper where Arthur Pendelton’s law firm occupied the top three floors.
I wore a dark navy wool suit, tailored to perfection, my hair pulled back into a smooth, professional bun. In my hand, I carried a sleek leather briefcase containing my personal financial logs. Beside me walked Arthur Pendelton and my father’s senior security officer, Victoria.
Today was the formal legal deposition for our divorce and corporate liquidation proceedings. Ethan had been forced to hire a low-cost court-appointed legal aid lawyer after every private attorney in Manhattan refused to take his case without a substantial cash retainer—money he no longer possessed.
When we stepped into the floor-to-ceiling glass conference room overlooking the New York Harbor, Ethan was already sitting at the far end of the long mahogany table.
The transformation in three weeks was astounding.
The polished, arrogant young executive who had strutted through St. Vincent’s Hospital in custom Brioni suits was completely gone. In his place sat a hollow, nervous man wearing an ill-fitting, wrinkled jacket. Dark circles hung heavily beneath his eyes, his hair was unwashed, and his hands twitched nervously around a paper cup of cheap coffee. Beside him sat his court-appointed attorney, a young, exhausted-looking woman named Ms. Rivera.
When Ethan looked up and saw me step into the room, a flash of desperation, fear, and deep-seated bitterness crossed his pale face.
"Claire..." Ethan rasped, his voice rough. He started to stand up. "Claire, please, can we talk without the lawyers for just five minutes?"
Victoria stepped forward instantly, her sharp eyes fixing onto Ethan, her hand resting casually near her jacket closure. Ethan winced, remembering the power of my father’s security team, and slowly sank back into his leather chair.
"Sit down, Mr. Vance," Arthur Pendelton said coldly, setting his briefcase onto the table with a crisp snap. "Ms. Morgan is under no obligation to speak to you informally. This deposition is being recorded for the court record."
Ms. Rivera cleared her throat, looking down at the massive stack of financial documents Arthur’s firm had provided. She looked thoroughly defeated before the meeting had even begun.
"Mr. Pendelton," Ms. Rivera began, her tone weary. "My client understands that mistakes were made on the day of your client's discharge from the hospital. He expresses deep remorse for his poor judgment."
"Poor judgment?" I spoke up, my voice smooth, quiet, and completely devoid of emotion. "Leaving a woman five days post-C-section on a sidewalk with twelve dollars while taking your family to a celebratory lunch isn't 'poor judgment,' Ms. Rivera. It is abandonment. It is cruelty."
Ethan slammed his palm against the table, his composure fracturing. "I gave you twelve dollars! The bus cost two seventy-five! You had a phone! You had a brain! You act like I left you in the middle of a desert, Claire!"
"Mr. Vance, control your temper," Ms. Rivera warned, placing a hand on his arm.
"No, I won't control my temper!" Ethan shouted, glaring at me across the table. "Look at her! She’s sitting there in a custom suit while my mother is living in a two-room rental in Queens! My father’s heart medication ran out yesterday because my insurance was canceled! Her father destroyed my business! They stole my life!"
Arthur Pendelton didn't even look up from his notepad. "Your business was a hollow shell, Mr. Vance. You defaulted on two million dollars of commercial loans held by Morgan Global Capital. You forged your wife's signature on notarized asset encumbrances. You committed corporate fraud, wire fraud, and grand larceny under New York State Penal Law."
Arthur pulled out a thick red folder and slid it across the table toward Ms. Rivera.
"This is the complete forensic audit conducted by the District Attorney’s Financial Crimes Unit," Arthur said smoothly. "If Mr. Vance agrees to sign the full, uncontested divorce settlement today—surrendering all claims to marital property, waiving all parental rights to Noah Vance, and accepting full personal liability for his firm's debts—my client's foundation will decline to press formal criminal fraud charges."
Ms. Rivera opened the folder. As her eyes scanned the top three pages—which detailed Ethan’s forged notary seals and offshore money transfers—her face turned completely white.
She turned to Ethan, leaning in close, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper: "Ethan, if this goes to the District Attorney, you are looking at five to seven years in a state penitentiary. You sign this document right now."
Ethan stared at the pages. Sweat broke out across his forehead, dripping down his temple. "No... no, I can't sign away my son... I can't sign away everything..."
"You don't have a son, Ethan," I said, leaning forward, looking straight into his bloodshot eyes. "You never wanted a son. You wanted a leverage point. You wanted a trophy to show your mother. Noah will grow up knowing what real strength looks like. He will carry my maiden name, he will be raised by people who love him, and he will never, ever know the sound of your voice."
Ethan’s hand trembled violently as Ms. Rivera thrust a pen into his fingers.
May you like
He looked at me, searching my face for a single trace of the timid, submissive woman he had married three years ago. He found nothing—only the cold, unyielding iron of General Thomas Morgan’s daughter.
With a ragged, broken gasp, Ethan pressed the pen to the paper, signing his name across the bottom line of the surrender agreement.
