Chapter 6 - The Federal Holding Facility
Three days later, I sat across a thick shatterproof glass partition in the bleak, fluorescent-lit visiting room of the federal holding facility.
The door on the other side clicked open, and two guards escorted Nathan into the booth.
He looked unrecognizable. The expensive Brioni suits had been replaced by a coarse orange jumpsuit. His hair was uncombed, his cheeks hollow, and his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights and raw, unadulterated panic.
He sat down heavily on the metal stool, picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver, and stared at me through the smudged glass. I picked up mine on the other side.
"Rachel," his voice rasped through the speaker, sounding small, broken, and desperate. "Rachel, please... you have to get me out of here. The guards—they're treating me like a common criminal. They won't let me make calls, they froze my trust funds, my defense attorney says I'm facing twenty-five years without parole..."
I didn't smile. I didn't scowl. I simply looked at him the way a scientist looks at an interesting specimen in a jar.
"Your defense attorney is being optimistic, Nathan," I said evenly. "The federal prosecutor has over forty counts of wire fraud, tax evasion, and conspiracy. And that's before we add the civil charges for domestic battery and financial coercion."
Nathan pressed his palms against the glass. "You planned this! All of it! The quietness, the submission, the cameras—you let me hit you! You let me hurt you so you could build a case!"
"I didn't make you hit me, Nathan," I replied quietly. "I gave you power. And true to form, you used it to show me exactly who you were. You thought kindness was weakness. You thought silence was submission. You forgot the fundamental rule of power: the loudest person in the room is almost never the one holding the cards."
"Rachel, please," he sobbed, tears spilling down his cheeks, mingling with the stubble on his chin. "We were husband and wife. Don't do this. I'll give you a divorce, I'll sign everything over, just drop the charges—"
"The divorce was finalized yesterday," I interrupted smoothly. "Under Illinois law, because of your criminal conviction and financial abandonment, I retain sole ownership of all marital assets, including Blackthorn Manor."
Nathan’s jaw dropped. "Blackthorn... that was my dream estate!"
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"No, Nathan," I corrected him. "It was the stage where you played king. And now, the show is over."
I placed the phone back on its cradle, cutting off his frantic, screaming protests. I stood up, smoothed my coat, and walked out of the visiting room without looking back.
