"It's a bluff. It has to be a bluff. The red ledger? Who keeps a physical notebook in the 21st century? It's hearsay.

It's inadmissible. " Bradley Pearson was sitting in the corner staring at his tablet. The shark of Manhattan divorce law looked like he had just swallowed a hook. He wasn't looking at Richard. He was scrolling through emails, his thumbs moving in a blur. "Bradley! " Richard shouted, slamming his hand on the table.

"Stop playing with your phone and think. How do we kill the ledger? " Bradley stopped typing. He looked up slowly. His eyes were cold, devoid of the camaraderie they had shared over scotch just 12 hours ago. "We don't kill the ledger, Richard. " Bradley said, his voice flat.

"The ledger is the least of your problems. I just got off the phone with my partner at the firm. " "And? " "And the SEC didn't just receive an anonymous tip. " Bradley said, turning the tablet screen toward Richard. "They received a dossier. Detailed emails, wire transfer receipts, manifests showing that you were shipping phantom cargo to inflate your quarterly revenue numbers. " Richard went pale. "Everyone does that.

It's it's creative accounting. " "It's fraud. " Bradley corrected him sharply. "And here is the kicker. The timestamps on the leaked documents, they go back five years. Silas Thorn has been sitting on this evidence for five years. " Richard slumped into a chair. The room seemed to tilt.

"Why? " "Why wait? " "Because he was giving you a chance to stop. " Bradley said, a realization dawning on him. "Don't you get it? He was watching you. If you had treated Catherine well, if you had been a faithful husband, maybe he would have let you keep the company, or at least let you retire quietly. But you got greedy.

You wanted to humiliate her. You wanted to leave her with nothing. Bradley stood up and began buttoning his jacket. He picked up his briefcase. Where are you going?

Richard asked, panic rising in his chest. We have to go back in there. We need a counter offer. I am going back in there. Bradley said.

To ask the judge for permission to withdraw as your counsel. Richard leaped to his feet. You can't do that. You're on a retainer. My retainer covers divorce proceedings.

Bradley snapped. It does not cover a criminal conspiracy to defraud investors. And frankly, Richard, looking at the clause 19 violation, you signed a document stating you disclosed all financials. If the SEC proves you were cooking the books, you committed perjury when you signed your financial affidavit this morning. I can't represent a client who lies to the court.

It puts my license at risk. You coward. Richard hissed. I made you rich. Silas Thorne is richer.

Bradley said, his hand on the doorknob. And unlike you, he plays the long game. I checked the roster of the Bar Association Ethics Committee. Do you know who the chairman is? A man named Marcus Thorne.

Silas's brother. If I stay attached to you, I'll be disbarred by Christmas. Bradley opened the door. The sounds of the courthouse hallway drifted in. Muffled footsteps, distant voices.

I suggest you go back in there and sign whatever they put in front of you. Bradley said, his voice dropping to a whisper. Because right now, Catherine is the only person in that room who might have a shred of mercy for you. Silas wants your head on a spike. She might just settle for your scalp.

Bradley walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar. Richard stood alone in the buzzing room. The silence was deafening. He looked at his reflection in the darkened window of the door. The man staring back wasn't the titan of logistics.

He looked small. He looked terrified. He thought about running. He could take the elevator down, slip out the back, get in his car, and go where? His credit cards were likely frozen.

His passport was in the safe at the penthouse. The penthouse that Catherine now effectively owned. He was trapped. Slowly Richard straightened his tie. It was a reflex, a muscle memory of a man who used to have power.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. "I am Richard Sterling. " He whispered to himself, trying to summon the arrogance that had fueled him for 40 years. "I can talk my way out of this. I always do. " But as he walked back toward courtroom 4B, his legs felt like lead. The long hallway felt like the green mile.

He wasn't walking to a negotiation. He was walking to his execution. When Richard reentered the courtroom, the atmosphere had changed. The air was no longer heavy with tension. It was heavy with finality.

Silas Thorne was no longer sitting. He was standing by the window, looking out at the gray Manhattan skyline, his back to the room. He looked like a general surveying a conquered city. Catherine sat at the table, her hands folded in her lap, her face serene but pale. Mr.

Finch was pouring another cup of tea from his thermos. Judge Pendleton watched Richard walk to the plaintiff's table. He noted the absence of the high-priced lawyer. Mr. Sterling, the judge said, peering over his spectacles, I see Mr.

Pearson has departed. He had a conflict of interest, your honor, Richard said, his voice hoarse. He gripped the edge of the table to stop his hands from shaking. I will be representing myself for the remainder of this hearing. A bold choice, the judge noted dryly.