Chapter 7 - The Settlement
Two months after Marguerite’s conviction, Weston sat across from me in a private conference room on the fortieth floor of Victoria Vance’s law firm.
He wore a dull orange county jumpsuit. His hands were handcuffed to a leather waist belt. His legal team had finalized a plea bargain with the federal prosecutor: five years in federal prison in exchange for a full surrender of all remaining assets and total cooperation in liquidating Blue Horizon Holdings.
Victoria set a stack of legal documents between us.
“This is the final civil property settlement,” Victoria said, her voice dry and professional. “Under the terms of this agreement, Mr. Sutherland releases all rights to the Elmwood Avenue property, forfeits his interest in the Charleston marina, surrenders his retirement accounts to satisfy the outstanding civil fraud judgment, and agrees to a permanent, lifetime restraining order.”
Weston looked at the papers, then looked up at me.
His eyes were sunken, dark circles carved deep into his skin. All the arrogance, all the performative charm that had swept me off my feet when I was twenty-three years old, was gone. He looked small, hollow, and utterly broken.
“You took everything, Brynn,” he said, his voice a raspy whisper. “You took my house, my practice, my mother... my future.”
I leaned across the table, looking into his eyes without a trace of anger or fear.
“I didn't take anything that was yours, Weston,” I said quietly. “I took back what you stole from me. I took back my father’s honor. I took back my name. And I took back my freedom.”
“Do you know what it’s like in there?” he whispered, his eyes pleading for a crumb of sympathy. “My mother is sixty years old, Brynn. She’s in a maximum-security facility in Columbia. She doesn't belong there.”
“She belongs exactly where her actions put her,” I replied coldly. “She spent thirty years treating people like disposable tools. She spent five years treating me like an unpaid servant while stealing my dead father’s money. She is finally learning that actions have consequences.”
Victoria pushed a pen toward him.
“Sign the papers, Weston,” Victoria said. “The transport bus leaves for the federal correctional facility in fifteen minutes.”
Weston’s hand shook as he picked up the pen. The metallic clink of his handcuffs echoed in the quiet conference room as he signed his name on the bottom line of the final page.
Weston Sutherland.
He dropped the pen onto the table.
Victoria immediately picked up the signed document, inspected the signature, and stamped it with her official notary seal.
“We’re done here,” Victoria announced.
Two armed federal marshals stepped into the room, grabbed Weston by his shoulders, and pulled him out of his chair.
As he was led toward the door, Weston paused and looked back over his shoulder at me one last time.
“Do you hate me, Brynn?” he asked.
I looked at him, feeling a sudden, deep sense of lightness spread through my chest—a total absence of pain, resentment, or bitterness.
May you like
“No, Weston,” I said softly. “Hate requires feeling something for you. I feel nothing at all.”
The door closed behind him with a heavy, final click.
