Chapter 7 - The Settlement Trap
The conference room on the fortieth floor of the Southeast Financial Center was built entirely of glass, polished granite, and silence.
Outside, the late afternoon sun was beginning to bleed into the horizon, painting the Miami skyline in shades of bruised purple and molten copper. Inside, the temperature was kept at a steady sixty-six degrees.
Derek sat at the far end of the sixteen-foot conference table, wearing a dark gray suit that hung off his shoulders.
He had spent four days in TGK before his mother finally convinced a second cousin in Ocala to take out a high-interest title loan on a bass boat to cover the bondsman’s fee. His skin was sallow, his eyes were ringed with dark, bruised circles, and the black plastic GPS tracking monitor strapped around his left ankle bulged visibly beneath his trouser cuff.
Beside him sat Peter Geller, a divorce attorney whose reputation was built on loud television commercials and aggressive courthouse hallway interviews. But today, Peter wasn't shouting. He was staring at a three-inch-thick binder with the expression of a man who had just opened a lunchbox and found a live grenade.
The double doors opened.
Arthur Campbell walked in first, his leather briefcase clicking softly as he set it on the table.
Then came Skylar.
Derek looked up, his breath catching in his throat.
I hadn't worn black. I hadn't worn an oversized sweater to hide the bandages.
I was wearing an ivory tailored suit by Alexander McQueen, the collar cut sharp and low enough to reveal the pristine, professional silicone scar-tape running down my neck. The swelling had subsided; the redness along my cheekbone had faded into a faint, clean pink line that looked less like an injury and more like a dueling scar.
My hair was pulled back into a severe, elegant chignon.
I didn't look like a victim. I looked like an executive board deciding which unprofitable division to liquidate before lunch.
Derek leaned forward, his hands flat on the mahogany. "Skylar..."
"Mr. Vance," Arthur Campbell said, his voice dropping like an iron curtain between us. "If you address my client directly, I will immediately conclude this settlement conference and instruct the state attorney to revoke your bail based on witness intimidation. Do you understand that instruction?"
Peter Geller cleared his throat, his collar suddenly looking very tight around his thick neck. "We understand, Arthur. We're here in good faith to resolve the marital property distribution and discuss the pending civil claims."
"There is no marital property distribution," Arthur said.
He sat down, flipped the brass latches on his briefcase, and slid four identical manila folders across the table.
"Exhibit A," Arthur said, tapping the first page. "The forensic accounting report conducted by Kroll Associates over the past seventy-two hours. It tracks the secondary corporate debit cards issued to Vance-Creative under the master logistics credit facility."
Derek blinked. "Those were business expenses. Client development."
"Indeed," Arthur said without looking up. "Let us examine the 'client development.' On August 14th, sixteen thousand four hundred dollars at the Cartier boutique in Bal Harbour. The surveillance footage—which we have already obtained via third-party subpoena—shows Miss Suzanne Vance trying on the Love bracelet while you handed the cashier Miss King's corporate card."
Derek went rigid.
"On November 2nd," Arthur continued, his voice as steady as a metronome, "eight thousand two hundred dollars at the Ritz-Carlton Grand Cayman. The guest registry lists Derek Vance and Suzanne Vance. No clients were present. On January 19th, eleven thousand dollars directly wired to a debt-collection agency in Tampa to satisfy Miss Suzanne Vance's delinquent cosmetic surgery loan."
Arthur turned a page.
"The total unauthorized diversion of trust assets over the twenty-six months of your marriage amounts to four hundred and eighty-six thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars and eighteen cents."
Peter Geller leaned over, whispered something frantic in Derek's ear, and shoved the binder forward. "Arthur, this is a civil dispute. These were household expenditures. Under Florida equitable distribution—"
"Under Florida Statute 812.014," Arthur interrupted, his voice dropping into that chilling, quiet register, "this is grand theft of the first degree. A felony punishable by up to thirty years in the state penitentiary. The criminal complaint has already been drafted. It is currently sitting on the desk of Assistant State Attorney Miller, awaiting my client's signature."
Derek looked at me, his eyes wide with genuine, unadulterated terror. "Skylar, you're going to put me in prison? For money? We were married!"
"You're already going to prison, Derek," I said.
It was the first time I had spoken to him since the lobby.
My voice was quiet, calm, completely devoid of the rage he had spent three years trying to provoke out of me.
"The felony battery charge carries a minimum mandatory guideline sentence of forty-eight months because of the nature of the chemical burn and the premeditation shown on the video," I said, leaning forward slightly so he could see the silver line of the scar-tape beneath my ear. "The grand theft charges are simply to ensure that when you finally walk out of Raiford, you don't have a single penny left to buy another cup of coffee."
"Skylar, please," Derek choked. A tear finally escaped his eye, tracking down his stubbled cheek. "I’ll pay it back. I’ll get a job. I’ll work for your father’s docks. I’ll do anything. Don't take my whole life away."
"You don't have a life to take, Derek," I told him. "You were living mine."
Arthur pushed a single, two-page legal document across the table toward Peter Geller.
"The settlement terms are non-negotiable," Arthur said. "One: An absolute, uncontested final judgment of dissolution of marriage with zero spousal support, zero equitable distribution, and zero claim to any trust asset, past, present, or future. Two: Full surrender of the Maserati to the leasing company, with Derek Vance assuming all remaining deficiency balances. Three: The immediate transfer of the title to the Ocala property owned by Brenda Vance as partial restitution for the grand theft claims."
"What?" Derek gasped. "My mother's house? You can't take my mother's house!"
"Your mother used fifty thousand dollars of the diverted trust funds to pay off her second mortgage last October," Arthur said coldly. "We have the wire confirmation. It is the fruit of a criminal enterprise. She signs the deed over to the trust, or she joins you on the grand jury indictment on Monday morning."
Peter Geller looked at Derek.
He didn't offer any legal advice. He didn't suggest a counter-offer.
He simply reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a black rollerball pen, clicked it, and laid it across the signature line.
"Sign it, Derek," Peter whispered. "Sign it right now, or I'm walking out of this room and withdrawing as your counsel before the federal marshals get involved."
Derek stared at the pen.
His hand shook so violently that when he picked it up, the nib rattled against the heavy paper, making tiny, spasmodic scratches before he managed to drag his name across the line.
*Derek M. Vance.*
May you like
The ink looked wet and dark, like spilled grounds on a clean white shirt.
***
