CHAPTER 8
Two weeks later, I sat at the defense table in Courtroom 302 of the United States District Court in Manhattan for a preliminary bail hearing.
I was wearing a plain gray suit I had purchased off the rack, my hair unkempt, my eyes hollow from fourteen consecutive nights of insomnia and relentless regret.
Marcus Sterling sat three seats away from me, flanked by two criminal defense attorneys, refusing to even make eye contact with me.
When the double doors at the back of the courtroom swung open, a quiet hush fell over the gallery as federal marshals escorted a woman into the room.
It was Claire.
She was wearing a simple cream-colored tailored suit, her dark hair pulled back neatly, her expression serene, strong, and completely devoid of fear.
She walked past our table without throwing a single glance in my direction, taking her seat in the front row beside the lead federal prosecutor.
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She looked radiant, completely transformed from the exhausted, isolated woman who had spent months crying quietly in our Greenwich nursery while I was away.
When she stepped up to the witness stand to provide a verified statement regarding the offshore accounts, her voice echoed through the courtroom with absolute, crystalline clarity.
