The judge believed all of it.
Twenty-five years.
The morning they came to transfer me to prison, my family came to watch.
Roman, impatient, checking an extravagant new watch. “Can we hurry this up? I have a board meeting.”
Priscilla, dabbing dry eyes with a tissue.
And Sienna, Roman’s pr*gnant m*stress, leaning into his shoulder, wearing a smile and, I noticed, my father’s emeralds around her throat.
The night before, Roman had leaned to the visitors’ glass and whispered, “Nobody is coming to rescue you, Isabel.”
He was right about that.
He just never imagined I didn’t need rescuing.
I’d declined to appeal, and he’d read it as surrender.
It was the opposite.
I had simply stopped fighting the battle he could see, so I could win the one he couldn’t.
Chapter 2: The Channel I Retired
While I sat in detention, my husband dismantled my life with the enthusiasm of a man who thought no one was keeping score.
