Chapter 10 - The TrialBrandon’s criminal case went to trial eleven months after the pool party.
Glass separated us.
Brandon wore county-issued clothing instead of a tailored suit.
His hair was longer.
His face thinner.
He looked human.
That was difficult.
Monsters are easier when they look like monsters.
Brandon looked like the man who once stood barefoot in our kitchen making pancakes on our first anniversary.
The man who held my hand through my mother’s surgery.
The man who danced with me in Rome beneath a summer thunderstorm.
People are rarely one thing.
That truth does not excuse them.
Sometimes it makes betrayal worse.
He picked up the phone.
I did the same.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
“You look good,” he said.
I almost laughed.
“Why did you ask me here?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“You’ve seen me.”
“Claire.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
I waited.
“For everything.”
“That is a large category.”
His mouth tightened.
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn everything into an interrogation.”
I stared at him.
Then he realized what he had done.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You managed eighteen seconds.”
“What?”
“Eighteen seconds between apologizing and blaming me.”
He closed his eyes.
“I deserve that.”
“Yes.”
He looked down.
“My attorney says I shouldn’t talk about the case.”
“Then don’t.”
“But I need you to know I never wanted Dean to die.”
I felt nothing.
“Okay.”
“Victor went too far.”
There it was.
“Victor says you ordered him to scare Dean.”
“I told him to get Dean to stop threatening the company.”
“How?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Convenient.”
“I made mistakes.”
“You committed crimes.”
His expression sharpened.
“Allegedly.”
I almost smiled.
“There’s the lawyer.”
“Claire, I’m facing decades.”
“Yes.”
“My life is over.”
“Dean’s life is over.”
That landed.
He looked away.
“I think about him every night.”
“Now?”
His eyes returned to mine.
“What does that mean?”
“Did you think about him before you were arrested?”
Silence.
“That’s what I thought.”
His face changed.
The charm disappeared.
“I loved you.”
I believed him.
That might sound strange.
But Brandon probably did love me according to whatever definition of love existed inside him.
The problem was that his definition included ownership.
Control.
Loyalty without accountability.
He loved me as long as I did not threaten the version of himself he needed everyone to believe.
“I loved you too.”
His eyes filled.
“Then help me.”
There it was.
Finally.
I leaned back.
“How?”
“Tell prosecutors I wasn’t trying to drug you.”
“No.”
“You don’t know that I was.”
“The medication came from pills you asked your mother for.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“No.”
“Then say that publicly.”
“No.”
He became irritated.
“Why not?”
“Because I do not owe you a defense.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
That surprised me.
“Do you really believe that?”
“You hated my family.”
“No.”
“You hated the money.”
“No.”
“You always acted morally superior.”
“No, Brandon.”
“You couldn’t stand that people liked me.”
I watched him.
Then I finally understood why I had needed this meeting.
Not closure.
People talk about closure as if another person can hand it to you.
They cannot.
I needed confirmation.
I needed to know whether accountability had changed him.
It had not.
Prison had removed his audience.
Not his worldview.
So I asked one question.
“Why did you push me?”
He blinked.
“What?”
“At the pool.”
“Claire, seriously?”
“Yes.”
“After everything happening, that’s what you want to discuss?”
“Yes.”
He exhaled.
“It was stupid.”
“Why?”
“I was drunk.”
“You had planned something before you got drunk.”
His eyes shifted.
Barely.
But I saw it.
“The message to Victor said you wanted me to look unstable.”
“My attorney said I can’t—”
“I’m not asking about the case.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“Why were you so certain your family would laugh?”
That silenced him.
I continued.
“You didn’t hesitate. Trevor and Mason didn’t hesitate. Nicole started filming. Your mother laughed before I even hit the water.”
He looked away.
“You knew they would choose you.”
No answer.
“That was the point, wasn’t it?”
“Claire—”
“You wanted me surrounded by people who would watch you humiliate me and still tell me I was the problem.”
His jaw tightened.
“Everyone was drunk.”
“No.”
I finally saw it.
Not remorse.
Anger.
Because I understood.
He had spent years creating an environment where I could not win.
If I complained, I was sensitive.
If I stayed quiet, I accepted it.
If I defended myself, I embarrassed him.
If I left, I betrayed the family.
The pool was simply the clearest version.
“Say it,” I whispered.
“Say what?”
“You thought I wouldn’t leave.”
His expression answered before his mouth did.
Finally:
“No.”
“What?”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“Why?”
“Because you always stayed.”
That was the most honest thing my husband ever told me.
I always stayed.
After every insult.
Every lie.
Every ruined birthday.
Every canceled promise.
Every cold shoulder.
Every apology designed to reset the clock.
I stayed.
So when two men held my arms and Brandon pushed me backward, he believed the future was already written.
I would climb out.
Cry.
He would call me dramatic.
His mother would demand I apologize for ruining the party.
He would buy flowers.
We would go home.
Nothing would change.
He gambled everything on my history of forgiveness.
And lost.
I picked up the phone receiver closer.
“Thank you.”
He frowned.
“For what?”
“For finally answering.”
“Claire—”
“I needed to know.”
“Know what?”
“That leaving was the only decision I could have made.”
His eyes widened.
“Don’t do this.”
“I already did.”
“The divorce isn’t final.”
“It will be.”
“We could start over.”
“No.”
“I can change.”
“I hope you do.”
“I mean us.”
“There is no us.”
He pressed his hand against the glass.
“Claire.”
I stood.
“Please.”
For one second, I almost felt guilty.
Then I remembered Dean Porter’s widow.
Elena Ruiz.
Martin Ellis.
Allison.
My own face emerging from freezing water while seventy people laughed.
I put the phone down.
Brandon hit the glass.
I heard nothing.
That was appropriate.
For years, his voice controlled every room.
Now the barrier between us made him silent.
I walked away.
Outside, Dad waited in the parking lot.
“How’d it go?”
“I’m done.”
He studied my face.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He opened his arms.
I hugged him.
Then we went for burgers.
No champagne.
No mansion.
May you like
No cameras.
Best dinner I had eaten in years.
