103 Thirty-eight weeks pregnant and already in labor, I called my husband begging him to come to the hospital, but laughter from his mother’s birthday dinner filled the phone before he snapped, “Handle it yourself, Phoebe. Stop being so dramatic.” Three days later, he finally walked through my hospital-room door, and the moment he saw the billionaire holding our newborn son, every trace of color disappeared from his face.

Four months passed.

Autumn arrived in Lake Forest, painting the massive oak and maple trees surrounding the Sterling Estate in brilliant hues of crimson, gold, and deep orange. Little Leo was thriving—his dark blue eyes becoming brighter every day, his laughter echoing through the halls of the stone mansion, his health perfect under the care of the city's finest pediatricians.

Meanwhile, forty miles south in downtown Chicago, the federal trial of Rowan Moretti and Selina Moretti began at the Everett McKinley Dirksen United States Courthouse.

I arrived at the courthouse wearing a tailored charcoal-gray pantsuit, my dark hair pulled back into a crisp, elegant bun, my posture immaculate. Flanked by my father and Harrison Cole, I walked past a wall of news cameras and reporters shouting questions about the "Sterling Embezzlement Scandal."

Inside the grand courtroom on the eighteenth floor, the atmosphere was thick with tension.

Rowan sat at the defense table, wearing a plain, ill-fitting dark blue suit provided by the county jail. He had lost at least twenty pounds; his cheeks were sunken, his dark hair thinning, his arrogance completely crushed under four months of pre-trial detention.

Beside him sat Selina Moretti, wearing an old black dress, her face devoid of makeup, her hands trembling violently as she clutched a paper cup of water.

When I stepped into the courtroom and took my seat in the front row of the prosecution's gallery, Rowan turned his head slowly.

Our eyes met across the wooden railing.

In his eyes, I saw an embarrassing cocktail of desperation, regret, and wild, unhinged pleading. He mouthed the words, "Phoebe, please."

I didn't flinch. I didn't look away. I simply looked through him as if he were made of clear glass—a complete stranger who held no power over my life.

The federal prosecutor, Assistant U.S. Attorney Sarah Jenkins, called her first primary witness to the stand: Phoebe Vance.

I walked up to the witness stand, placed my hand on the Bible, took the oath, and sat down in the wooden swivel chair.

"Ms. Vance," Sarah Jenkins began, stepping toward the podium. "Can you state your professional background for the jury?"

"I hold a Master's degree in Forensic Accounting from Northwestern University, and I am a licensed Certified Fraud Examiner with eight years of senior audit experience," I replied, my voice clear, steady, and echoing perfectly across the silent courtroom.

"And in your capacity as a CFE, did you conduct an independent financial review of Westlake Capital’s escrow accounts between August 2024 and August 2026?"

"I did," I answered calmly. "Over a seventy-two-hour period while recovering in the hospital following the birth of my son, I analyzed two hundred and fourteen fraudulent transactions authorized under Rowan Moretti’s digital signature."

For the next two hours, I methodically dismantled every single defense Rowan’s public defender had attempted to construct. I walked the jury through the digital paper trails, the shell company bank routing numbers, the forged approval signatures, and the direct wire transfers into Selina Moretti’s boutique account.

I presented the evidence not with emotion or anger, but with the cold, surgical precision of an expert professional.

When Sarah Jenkins asked her final question, she held up a printed screenshot of the text message Rowan had sent me while I was in active labor.

"Ms. Vance," Attorney Jenkins asked, holding the paper toward the jury box. "Where were you when the defendant sent you this text message stating, 'Mom loved the watch I bought her. Coming home Monday. Don’t start another fight'?"

"I was in active labor in Room 408 of St. Jude's Hospital," I testified softly. "Having called my husband four times begging him to come, only to be told by him and his mother to 'call a cab' and 'stop being dramatic.'"

Gasps rippled through the gallery. Several jurors shook their heads in visible disgust, looking over at Rowan with absolute disdain.