Chapter 17 - THE VERDICT
The jury deliberated for three days.
I spent the time at NexusCore.
Work kept my hands occupied.
It did not quiet my mind.
Employees had uncovered another hidden reserve.
Matthew kept thirty million dollars in a foreign account intended to fund his escape.
The money was recovered through cooperation agreements.
A portion stabilized the company.
Another portion was reserved for restitution.
The verdict arrived at 4:16 p.m.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty.
The word repeated across the courtroom.
Matthew was convicted on nearly every major charge.
The jury did not convict him of directly causing Dr. Keats’s death because the evidence left reasonable doubt about what happened on the yacht.
He was convicted of obstruction and conspiracy connected to Keats.
Matthew showed no emotion until the clerk read the corporate-fraud verdict.
Losing the company affected him more visibly than losing his freedom.
At sentencing, several people spoke.
Former employees described retaliation.
Investors described deception.
Lauren described the danger to her son.
I spoke last.
Matthew stared at me.
“You told me I was no longer a Sterling,” I said.
“You believed separation from my family made me powerless.”
“But my name was never the thing you feared.”
“You feared evidence.”
“You feared witnesses.”
“You feared the moment people stopped accepting your version of events.”
I touched the medical cane beside me.
“You counted twenty blows.”
“I counted twenty reasons to survive long enough to tell the truth.”
The judge sentenced Matthew to decades in prison.
His lawfully held shares were seized in part for restitution and damages.
The remaining shares were placed under court supervision.
He lost his title.
His penthouse.
His hidden houses.
His corporate authority.
His reputation.
He did not lose those things because my father was rich.
He lost them because his crimes were documented.
Outside the courthouse, reporters shouted questions about justice.
I gave one statement.
“Calling my father helped me survive.”
“But every woman deserves help even when no powerful person answers.”
Then I left.
My father waited beside the car.
For years, I imagined returning to him as defeat.
Instead, I returned as myself.
He opened the door.
“Home?” he asked.
I thought about Greenwich.
The estate.
The company.
The apartment in Queens.
None of them felt like the answer.
May you like
“Not yet.”
“I want to build one.”
