The mistress arrived at the gala on my husband's arm, wearing my dress and my late grandmother's bracelet. Everyone called her "Mrs. Albright," while I woke up drugged at home. My son took the microphone in front of 300 guests and said, "Now you can support my father yourself." But they still had no idea about the 68-million-dollars file waiting to be opened.

Two weeks later. The Metropolitan Detention Center in Downtown Los Angeles.

The visitor’s room was cold, lit by harsh fluorescent lights overhead, smelling of industrial disinfectant and stale coffee. Thick bulletproof glass separated the inmate cubicles from the visitor chairs.

I sat on a metal stool on the visitor's side, wearing a simple white silk blouse and tailored trousers.

On the other side of the glass, Christopher sat in an orange prison jumpsuit.

In just fourteen days, he had lost twenty pounds. His hair was messy, unwashed, and graying at the temples. His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark, bruised-looking circles. He looked broken beyond recognition.

He slowly picked up the plastic telephone receiver attached to the wall.

I picked up mine.

"You came," Christopher whispered, his voice sounding hollow through the small earpiece speaker.

"I came to finish things, Christopher," I replied smoothly.

"They put me in a cell with three other men, Vivian," he stammered, his eyes darting around frantically as if he feared the guards standing near the doors. "Brenda is in the women's facility across town. She’s testifying against me! She’s telling the prosecutors that I planned the poisoning from the very beginning! She’s trying to cut a deal to get five years while I face thirty!"

"That sounds like Brenda," I said indifferently. "She always was loyal to whoever held the checkbook."

"You have to help me," Christopher pleaded, pressing his trembling hands against the thick glass. "Your lawyers... Gibson Dunn... they have connections with the Department of Justice. Tell them to drop the state charges! Tell them it was a domestic misunderstanding! I'll sign over everything! I'll give you the estate, the cars, the accounts—"

"I already own the estate, the cars, and the accounts, Christopher," I interrupted him softly. "The court finalized the emergency asset forfeiture yesterday morning. Everything you bought with my father's money has been returned to the Vance Trust."

I pulled a crisp set of legal documents from my leather handbag and pressed them flat against the glass wall.

"These are final divorce papers," I told him. "You surrender all claims to the Vance estate, all claims to company stock, and all parental rights regarding Luke. You take full responsibility for the tax liabilities incurred by your offshore shell companies."

Christopher stared at the papers, his jaw trembling. "And if I don't sign?"

"If you don't sign," I leaned closer to the glass, "my legal team will hand over the secondary set of hard drives Luke retrieved from your safe to the state prosecutor. The ones containing evidence of your illegal offshore insider trading operations."

Christopher choked back a sob, realizing he had zero cards left to play.

"You were always smarter than me, Vivian," he whispered, tears streaming down his face. "I thought... I thought I was the one running the game."

"You were never running the game, Christopher," I said, setting down my receiver. "You were just playing with my father’s money."

I tapped the glass once, signaling the guard to bring in the signing pen.