Chapter 10 - The Broken Man’s Begging
Following the press conference, as Daniel and I prepared to leave the administrative wing of the courthouse, an officer approached us.
“Mrs. Vance? The prisoner Brandon Hayes has requested five minutes with you before his transfer to the state penitentiary. He is waiving all legal privileges. It’s up to you.”
Daniel looked at me protectively. “You don't owe him a single second, Clara.”
I looked at my hands, feeling the cool platinum band on my index finger—my grandfather’s signet ring. “I want to see him, Daniel. Not for him. For me.”
Five minutes later, I walked into the private visitation room. Brandon sat across the table, shackled at the ankles and wrists. He had aged ten years in three weeks. His arrogant, polished veneer was completely gone, leaving behind a shriveled, terrified shell of a man.
“Clara…” he rasped, tears streaming down his face as he looked up at me. “Clara, please. Please look at me.”
I sat down on the opposite side of the table, folding my hands neatly. I remained silent.
“I was crazy, Clara,” he sobbed, his voice cracking. “Victoria poisoned my mind. She told me I was trapped, that a baby would ruin my career! I never meant to hurt you or Leo! I swear on my life! You have to help me. If I go to state prison, they’ll destroy me. The feds are talking about a twenty-year sentence!”
He leaned across the table, trying to reach my hands with his chained fingers, but the guard immediately tapped his baton against his shoulder, forcing him back.
“Twenty years,” I repeated calmly. “That’s about how long it will take for Leo to graduate from college. The son you didn't even bother to name. The son you wanted left as a ward of the state.”
“Clara, I love you!” Brandon cried out, completely shameless in his desperation. “Take me back! We can use your grandfather’s money to start over in Europe! I’ll be the husband you always wanted! I’ll wash your feet, I’ll stay home, I’ll do whatever you want! Just tell the prosecutor you forgive me!”
I looked into his eyes, searching for even a shred of genuine remorse. All I saw was a coward terrified of facing the consequences of his own cruelty.
“When I was lying in that hospital bed, bleeding and crying for you, you were toasting champagne with Victoria,” I whispered, every word slicing like a scalpel. “You didn't care if I lived or died, Brandon. And now? You don't exist to me. You are nothing more than a bad memory.”
I stood up, smoothing the front of my jacket.
“Enjoy prison, Brandon. It’s the only home you have left.”
May you like
I turned and walked through the steel door without looking back once, leaving his pathetic wails echoing off the concrete walls.
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