My husband crashed in Vancouver while on vacation with his mistress. Then he called and ordered me to fly there and take care of them.

Three weeks later, the snow began to fall over Vancouver.

The courtroom in the BC Supreme Court building was high-ceilinged, panelled in dark oak, and filled to capacity with international news reporters, financial analysts, and representatives from the equity sector.

I sat at the prosecution table, wearing a dark navy suit. My leg was no longer in a heavy boot, though I still walked with a polished black cane. My hair was pulled back cleanly, and my face was entirely pale, but my hands were dead steady.

Across the room sat Tristan.

In three weeks of high-security detention, he had aged ten years. His polished, arrogant appearance had shattered. His hair was thin and unstyled, his designer suit hung loosely off his gaunt frame, and dark, purple bruises of fatigue were etched under his eyes. His high-priced Seattle legal team had been replaced by a local public defender after his firm’s equity assets were frozen solid by the US Department of Justice.

“All rise,” the bailiff announced as Justice Eleanor Vance—no relation—took the bench.

The trial had been swift. The evidence gathered by Detective Miller, Dr. Mensah, and the forensic computer teams was an insurmountable mountain of steel and data.

The prosecution called Dr. Mensah first. She stood in the witness box, wearing her formal medical blazer, her silver braids gleaming under the courtroom lights.

“Dr. Mensah,” the Crown Prosecutor asked, “in your professional medical opinion, could the compound found on Mrs. Vance’s heel have been applied accidentally through environmental contamination?”

“Absolutely not,” Dr. Mensah replied, her voice ringing clearly through the gallery. “The organophosphate compound was suspended in an eighty-percent concentration of dimethyl sulfoxide. DMSO does not occur naturally in timber sealants or domestic cleaning products in those concentrations. It was custom-synthesized to act as an transdermal delivery mechanism for poison. Had Mrs. Vance remained in that apartment for another six hours, the microvascular failure would have caused total renal shutdown and cardiac arrest.”

A collective gasp rippled through the gallery.

Tristan’s defense attorney stood up weakly. “Objection, Your Honor—speculation on ultimate cause of death.”

“Overruled,” Justice Vance said sharply. “The witness is an expert in toxicological trauma. Continue.”

Next came Detective Miller, who laid out the digital telematics log proving Tristan had systematically canceled my ride-share options while I was burning with a fever, followed by the recorded phone calls to the non-accredited private containment facility in Oregon.

When the prosecution rested, the room was so quiet you could hear the soft patter of snow against the high windows.

Justice Vance looked down at Tristan.

“Does the defense wish to call the accused to the stand?” she asked.

Tristan’s attorney whispered frantically in his ear, shaking his head. Tristan stared at me from across the room, his eyes wide, filled with a desperate, pathetic plea for mercy.

For three years, he had held every financial, physical, and emotional leverage point over my life. He had made me feel small, incompetent, and utterly dependent on his goodwill to keep our disabled son alive.

Now, he had nothing left except the silence of his own guilt.

Tristan slowly stood up from his chair. “Your Honor… I would like to make a statement.”

“Tristan, don't!” his attorney warned, reaching for his sleeve.

Tristan shoved his lawyer’s hand away, taking a trembling step toward the microphone.

“I… I was under immense financial pressure,” Tristan stammered, his voice cracking. “The firm… the short positions in Vancouver were failing. I wasn't thinking clearly. Reese… Reese was depressed. She was making things difficult at home. I only wanted her to rest! I didn't know the compound was that dangerous! I was just trying to protect our family’s reputation!”

Justice Vance stared down at him over her spectacles, her expression absolute ice.

“Mr. Vance,” Justice Vance said softly, her voice carrying a cold weight that made the entire courtroom freeze. “You did not attempt to protect your family. You attempted to execute a cold, calculated, and terrifyingly silent murder of the woman who trusted you with her life, solely to protect your own fraudulent financial empire.”

She didn't even pause to deliberate.

“On the count of attempted murder with a toxic substance, I find you guilty. On the count of forcible confinement, I find you guilty. On the count of child endangerment and fraud, I find you guilty. You will be remanded to the Kent Institution without bail pending final sentencing, where the Crown will be seeking a minimum sentence of twenty-five years without possibility of parole.”

The gavel came down with a sharp, heavy CLANG.

Tristan collapsed into his chair, burying his face in his raw, unwashed hands as the court guards stepped forward to clamp heavy steel irons around his wrists and ankles.