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The interrogation room at the Denver Police Headquarters smelled of stale coffee, old paper, and institutional floor wax. The harsh fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over the scuffed metal table bolted to the floor.

I sat on the other side of the double-way mirror in the observation suite, sipping a cup of hot chamomile tea, watching Michael through the glass.

He looked pathetic. The bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo was wrinkled and stained with grass from where he had collapsed in the cemetery. His hair was disheveled, his tie was crooked, and he sat hunched over the metal table with his cuffed hands buried in his face, rocking back and forth in silent panic.

Detective Vance walked into the observation suite, dropping a thick manila folder onto the table beside me.

“He’s breaking, Emma,” Vance said, leaning against the counter with a grim smirk. “Ashley cracked within ten minutes of being brought into the adjacent holding cell. She gave us the entire blueprint—the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, the fake shell companies, even the name of the corrupt insurance broker who helped Michael forge your signature on the policy documents.”

“And Michael?” I asked, my voice remaining ice-cold as I watched him through the glass.

“He’s still trying to salvage a deal,” Vance snorted. “He thinks if he cooperates and hands over the master encryption keys to his hidden asset network, we’ll go easy on him. He has no idea that Arthur has already frozen every single cent of his corporate holdings through a federal injunction filed an hour ago.”

I stood up smoothly from my chair, smoothing down the lapel of my black blazer.

“I want to talk to him,” I said.

Vance hesitated, raising an eyebrow. “Emma, protocol dictates—”

“I don't care about protocol, Detective,” I interrupted, turning my head to look him straight in the eye. “He tried to murder me and my newborn child. I want five minutes alone with him in that room.”

Vance stared at me for a long moment, reading the unyielding, razor-sharp resolve etched across my face. Slowly, a respectful nod touched his lips.

“Five minutes, Emma,” Vance said, unlocking the heavy door to the interrogation room. “And make sure the cameras keep rolling.”

The heavy steel door of the interrogation room clicked open with a sharp, echoing snap.

Michael didn't look up immediately, assuming it was just another detective coming in to read him his Miranda rights.

“I want my lawyer,” Michael muttered miserably into his hands. “I’m not saying another word without legal counsel present.”

I pulled out the chair opposite him, sitting down deliberately and resting my hands flat on the cold metal table.

Slowly, Michael raised his head.

When his bloodshot eyes locked onto mine, he recoiled backward so violently that his chair screeched loudly against the floor. He gripped the edge of the table, his breath catching in his throat like a drowning man.

“E-Emma...?” he whispered, his voice cracking into a pathetic, high-pitched whine. “Please... please don't look at me like that. It was a mistake! Ashley... Ashley manipulated me! She convinced me we needed the money for our future! I never wanted to hurt you, Em! I swear to God!”

I didn't move a muscle. I didn't raise my voice. I simply leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, and looked at him the way a scientist might look at a particularly repulsive specimen under a microscope.

“You spent three years planning my murder, Michael,” I said softly, my voice carrying a terrifying, measured calm. “You researched the exact temperature of a mountain blizzard. You calculated the drop radius. You even had the audacity to call me your light while plotting how to divide my inheritance with your secretary.”

Michael began to tremble uncontrollably, tears streaming down his cheeks as he realized all his charm and manipulation were completely useless against the wall of ice standing before him.

“What... what are you going to do to me?” he sobbed, pressing his palms against his face. “Are you going to kill me? Are you going to have your grandfather’s men throw me off a cliff?”

I let out a soft, humorless laugh—a cold sound that made him flinch.

“Kill you?” I shook my head slowly. “No, Michael. Killing you would be an act of mercy. You’re going to spend the rest of your natural life in a maximum-security federal penitentiary where men like you are traded like currency. You’re going to lose your money, your freedom, your status, and every single illusion of power you ever had.”