The air inside Robert Vance’s downtown office always smelled of old paper, polished mahogany, and high-stakes desperation.

While our lives in Atlanta were blossoming into something beautiful, the wheels of federal justice were grinding slowly but inexorably toward a final reckoning.

Two months later, the federal district courthouse downtown was surrounded by media vans and camera crews. The case of United States v. Damian Prescott had become a high-profile financial scandal across the Southeast, exposing not just embezzlement and wire fraud, but a pattern of predatory corporate coercion.

I sat in the front row of the public gallery, flanked by Robert Vance and Ethan. Chloe had chosen to stay at her studio, refusing to give Damian the satisfaction of seeing her cower in a courtroom. She didn't need to be there anymore; her silence had been replaced by the roar of federal indictments.

When Damian was led into the courtroom in orange jumpsuits and heavy ankle shackles, he looked a shadow of the arrogant restaurateur who had once laughed at me across a dirty kitchen floor. His tailored navy suits were gone, replaced by the humiliating uniform of a federal inmate. His hair was unkempt, and his eyes darted frantically around the gallery until they landed squarely on Ethan and me.

For a second, a flash of pure, venomous hatred crossed Damian's face. He opened his mouth as if to shout, but his defense attorney placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, forcing him down into his seat.

The federal judge, a stern woman with decades on the bench, didn't waste any time with pleasantries.

"Mr. Prescott," the judge began, her voice echoing coldly through the wood-paneled courtroom. "You stand convicted on three counts of wire fraud, interstate embezzlement, and financial coercion utilizing illicitly acquired capital. The prosecution has outlined a systemic pattern of manipulation designed not just to defraud investors, but to systematically isolate and subjugate private individuals."

Damian stared stubbornly at the defense table, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle twitched.

"The court has reviewed the asset forfeiture filings," the judge continued, picking up a heavy document. "All remaining holdings of Vanguard Holdings, including the commercial property formerly known as The Hearth, are hereby permanently seized by the federal government. Restitution payouts will be directed immediately to the primary victims—beginning with Caldwell Capital and restitution grants for independent creative assets."

She paused, looking down over her glasses straight at Damian.

"Given the premeditated nature of your crimes and the complete absence of remorse, this court sentences you to twelve years in a federal penitentiary without the possibility of parole for the first eight."

Gavel.

The sharp crack of the wooden mallet echoed through the courtroom like a gunshot.

Damian slumped forward, burying his face in his cuffed hands as federal marshals stepped up behind him, grabbing his arms and hauling him toward the exit. He didn't look back. His empire of glass had finally shattered into dust.

As the courtroom began to empty, Ethan leaned over to me, resting his hand on his crutch.