Chapter 8 - The Confrontation At The Detention Center
Three days later, I sat in the sterile, fluorescent-lit visitor booth of the Manhattan Federal Detention Center behind a thick glass partition.
The metal door clicked open, and two correctional officers led Ryan into the booth, his hands locked in heavy steel chains.
He looked completely unrecognizable from the arrogant billionaire who had bragged about slapping me at my birthday party.
His hair was unwashed, his face still bore the purple bruises from my father’s guards, and his orange jumpsuit hung loosely on his frame.
He sat down heavily on the metal stool, picking up the heavy telephone receiver with trembling, handcuffed hands.
I picked up my receiver on the other side of the glass, looking at him with absolute, icy detachment in my eyes.
“Ava… please…” Ryan whispered through the speaker grill, his voice cracking with desperate, pathetic emotion.
“Tell your father to drop the federal charges. Tell him I’m sorry. I didn't mean what I said at the party.”
“You meant every word, Ryan,” I replied calmly, my voice steady and devoid of any lingering fear or hesitation.
“You spent two years convincing me that I was weak, that I had no voice, and that nobody would ever believe me.”
“You forgot that my father built an empire precisely to protect people like me from men like you.”
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Ryan slammed his fist against the glass partition, shouting obscenities before the correctional officers rushed in and dragged him out of the room.
I placed my receiver back onto its cradle, stood up smoothly, and walked out of the detention center into the warm New York sunshine.
