Chapter 8 - The Ruin of the Fosters
Two months after the trial, the luxury shopping district of South Beach was bustling with wealthy tourists, but the storefront that once housed Suzanne’s Luxe Style was dead.
The glass windows were covered in brown paper, and a large, neon-orange legal notice was taped to the front door: PROPERTY SEIZED BY COUNTY SHERIFF FOR SATISFACTION OF JUDGMENT.
Suzanne Foster stood on the sidewalk across the street, her reflection in a shop window unrecognizable. Her blonde extensions were gone, her skin pale and drawn from weeks of surviving on generic canned food in a tiny studio apartment near the airport. Her luxury SUV had been repossessed three weeks prior, and she had spent the morning taking the city bus to look for a job as a retail clerk—the very position she used to mock when she was spending Skylar’s money.
"Look at her," a voice whispered from behind her.
Suzanne turned to see two of her former high-society friends walking past, carrying designer shopping bags. They didn't stop to say hello. They simply looked at her with a mixture of pity and amusement, whispering to each other before stepping into a nearby cafe.
The smile that Suzanne had worn for years like a weapon had been completely erased from her face. She was no longer the elegant boutique owner; she was the sister of a convicted felon, a woman whose name was Google-poisoned forever by the forensic audit report.
Meanwhile, in the maximum-security wing of the Miami-Dade Detention Center, Derek Foster sat in a gray jumpsuit behind a thick plexiglass window. His hair was shaved to the scalp, and his hands were chapped from manual laundry labor.
His lawyer sat on the other side of the glass, holding a modern tablet. "The plea deal from the State Attorney is eight years, Derek. If we go to trial on the felony battery and tax evasion charges, you’re looking at fifteen. Victoria Vance has submitted additional logistics evidence to the IRS showing that you haven't declared your boat commissions for five years. They’re treating you like an international smuggler."
Derek stared at his own reflection in the plexiglass. He looked down at his empty fingers, remembering the wedding ring Skylar had left behind on the counter—the ring that had now been melted down and sold to fund the legal fees that ruined him.
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"Tell them I’ll take the eight years," Derek whispered, his voice completely broken. "Just... tell Skylar I’m sorry."
"Skylar doesn't care, Derek," the lawyer said, closing his tablet and standing up. "She hasn't asked about you once since the day the judge signed the papers. You don't exist to her anymore."
