Roman had spent nine years ensuring his cruelty happened where no one could see it; I made certain his exposure happened where everyone could — and in that fully lit room, his story about my breakdown had nowhere left to stand, because the only person visibly breaking down at that table was him.

Bright red lines marched down the columns, marking every unauthorized transfer, every payment to the ghost vendor North Harbor Design, every invoice for consulting that had never occurred, across eighteen months.

And then, beside each of those wire transfers, I brought up the matching charges on the company’s corporate cards: five-star hotel suites, luxury spa weekends, a jeweler’s invoices — each of them dated, I let the room notice, to line up exactly with one of Sabrina’s approved procurement payments.

A ripple of gasps went around the table.