I was eight months pregnant when my billionaire husband raised his hand to strike me again.

The meeting was held in a neutral, highly secure conference room at the US Attorney’s Office in Manhattan.

I sat next to my father and the lead federal prosecutor. Across the steel table sat Beatrice Vance and her public defender—a stark downgrade from the $2,000-an-hour lawyers she used to employ.

Beatrice looked haggard, but there was a desperate, venomous light in her eyes.

“My client is prepared to offer full cooperation,” her lawyer began, sliding a manila folder across the table. “She can provide dates, times, and exact offshore routing numbers proving Julian Vance orchestrated the entire embezzlement scheme at Vance Innovations. Furthermore, she will testify that Julian was the sole mastermind behind the plot to falsely imprison Ms. Sterling and kidnap her unborn child.”

The prosecutor flipped through the folder, his face impassive.

I stared at Beatrice. She refused to meet my eyes, focusing intently on the wall behind me.

“In exchange,” her lawyer continued, “Beatrice is asking for full immunity from prosecution regarding the medical fraud and conspiracy charges.”

The room was silent save for the hum of the air conditioning.

My father leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers. He looked at me, deferring the power. This was my trauma. This was my choice.

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table.

“Beatrice,” I said softly.

She finally flicked her eyes toward me.

“You watched him hit me,” I said, my voice steady, devoid of the fear that used to choke me. “You drank champagne while he threatened to take my daughter. You signed the papers that would have locked me in a padded cell for the rest of my life.”

“I was afraid of him too, Clara,” she lied smoothly, forcing a tear to well in her eye. “He is a monster. I had to play along to survive.”

I didn’t blink. “You didn’t play along. You directed him. You are the architect of his cruelty. He learned it all from you.”

I turned to the federal prosecutor. “We don’t need her testimony. Dr. Evans already gave you the physical evidence of the medical fraud. Marcus, the CFO, gave you the financial trails. We have the hidden camera footage from the penthouse.”

The prosecutor nodded in agreement. “We have an ironclad case against Julian Vance without Mrs. Vance’s cooperation.”

I looked back at Beatrice, watching the smug hope drain from her face.

“There is no immunity deal,” I told her, my voice turning to steel. “You aren't a victim, Beatrice. You’re a co-conspirator. And I am going to make sure you share a cell block right next to the women you thought were beneath you.”

Beatrice leaped up, her chair crashing to the floor. “You vicious little bitch! I am a Vance! You cannot do this to me!”