Chapter 5: The Anatomy of a Ruin

Thirty days later, I walked into the Franklin County Courthouse.

The architecture was imposing—vast expanses of gray slate, echoing marble corridors, and the sterile hum of metal detectors.

I’d been here before as an expert witness, a numbers mechanic hired to explain corporate malfeasance to bored juries. Today, I was the plaintiff. Today, the malfeasance was mine.

Lauren was waiting outside Courtroom 4B in a razor-sharp charcoal suit, clutching two massive, color-coded trial binders. “Heart rate?” she asked, assessing my calm.

“Steady,” I replied, smoothing the skirt of my navy dress. “Good. Remember the protocol. Do not editorialize. Do not show anger. Answer only what is asked. Let the paper trail hang him.”

We pushed through the heavy oak double doors. Ethan was already seated at the respondent’s table beside his attorney, Mark Ellison. Ethan wore a bespoke suit I’d bought for our twentieth anniversary.