The mistress arrived at the gala on my husband's arm, wearing my dress and my late grandmother's bracelet. Everyone called her "Mrs. Albright," while I woke up drugged at home. My son took the microphone in front of 300 guests and said, "Now you can support my father yourself." But they still had no idea about the 68-million-dollars file waiting to be opened.

While Christopher broke down in tears, Brenda Vance took a very different approach: pure, unadulterated desperation.

In her holding cell, she refused to cooperate with public defenders, demanding to speak directly to high-profile defense attorneys who refused to take her case due to the overwhelming public outcry and bulletproof evidence against her.

Three days after her arrest, her legal team managed to secure a brief hearing for bail reduction at the Los Angeles Superior Court. Brenda arrived in a orange jumpsuit, her wrists handcuffed to her waist. Her sleek blonde hair was greasy and unwashed, and the glamorous mistress who had stood under crystal chandeliers now looked like a hunted animal.

I sat in the front row of the gallery, flanked by Luke and our lead prosecutor, Ms. Catherine Vance (a fierce, unyielding former federal prosecutor who shared no sympathy for criminals).

Brenda's court-appointed lawyer stepped up to the podium. "Your Honor, my client was merely an employee following the instructions of her employer, Mr. Albright. She had no knowledge of the chemical nature of the substances involved, nor was she aware that the asset transfers were unauthorized—"

"Objection, Your Honor," Catherine stood up, holding a printed transcript. "We have retrieved text messages from Miss Vance's encrypted messaging application recovered from her seized mobile device. I would like to read entry 402, sent three days before the gala."

The judge nodded. "Proceed."

Catherine cleared her throat. "'Once Vivian is out of the picture and locked away in the clinic, we will liquidate her remaining personal trust. Make sure the dosage is high enough so she doesn't wake up until after the media reports me as the new Mrs. Albright.'"

The courtroom erupted into quiet murmurs. The judge’s face darkened instantly.

Brenda panicked. She twisted around in her seat, pointing a shaking, manicured finger—now missing its expensive polish—directly at me.

"She knew!" Brenda screamed, breaking court decorum. "Vivian knew everything! She let me do it! She set me up! She wanted me to steal her dress so she could frame me!"

"Silence in the court!" The judge slammed his gavel down sharply. "Control your client, counselor!"

"Vivian, you bitch!" Brenda shrieked, her voice echoing off the stone walls of the courtroom as court bailiffs grabbed her shoulders to force her back into her seat. "I took your husband because you were boring! He never loved you! He laughed at you every night in my bed!"

I didn't move an inch. I sat with my shoulders back, looking at her with quiet, unbothered pity.

"Miss Vance," the judge declared sternly, ignoring her outburst entirely. "In light of the clear evidence of premeditated physical harm, grand larceny, identity theft, and corporate fraud, bail is hereby revoked. You will remain in custody until your trial date."

Brenda was dragged out of the courtroom, kicking and screaming, her frantic cries fading down the hallway until the heavy double doors clicked shut.

Luke turned to me, offering a warm glass of water from his bag. "Are you okay, Mom?"