Chapter 7 - The Depositions
The conference room on the forty-second floor of the Sterling & Vance Legal Center was designed to crush the human spirit.
Floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooked the sprawling city below, making anyone sitting in the leather guest chairs feel microscopic. The long marble table was polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the cold, fluorescent downlights.
Across from me sat Marcus Sterling, flanking a stone-faced Evelyn Vance-Harding and Dr. Robert Thorne. Garrett was not present—the permanent protective order barred him from any room I occupied, even during legal proceedings; he was forced to observe via a muted video feed displayed on a flatscreen monitor at the end of the table.
On the screen, Garrett sat in a pristine white room at his mother’s estate, his arms crossed, watching me with a smug, mocking grin.
Beside me, Sarah Jenkins laid out her legal pads and clicked her pen. A court reporter sat at the corner of the table, fingers hovering over her stenotype machine.
"We are on the record for the pre-trial deposition in the matter of *Harding v. Harding and the Vance Family Trust*," Sterling announced smoothly. He adjusted his silk tie and fixed me with a piercing, patronizing gaze.
"Mrs. Harding," Sterling began, leaning forward on his elbows. "Isn't it true that during the third trimester of your pregnancy, you repeatedly expressed feelings of inadequacy, hopelessness, and severe emotional distress to your husband?"
"I was exhausted," I answered, keeping my voice level, just as Sarah had coached me for three straight hours. "And I was terrified of his escalating physical violence."
"Physical violence?" Sterling smiled thinly, shaking his head with rehearsed incredulity. "Mrs. Harding, Dr. Thorne has reviewed your medical records dating back three years. Doctor, would you mind sharing your clinical assessment of Mrs. Harding’s psychological baseline during her pregnancy?"
Dr. Thorne, a soft-bellied man with manicured hands and an aloof, clinical air, cleared his throat. "Based on extensive interviews with Mr. Garrett Harding, as well as journal entries recovered from the marital home, it is my professional medical opinion that Mrs. Harding exhibits symptoms consistent with severe borderline personality disorder with histrionic features. Individuals with this condition frequently engage in deliberate self-harm—such as throwing oneself against doorframes or fracturing one's own wrist—to manipulate partners and elicit sympathy."
Hearing him say those words—so casually, so coldly, transforming my torture into a clinical diagnosis of self-mutilation—made my blood boil.
"Doctor Thorne," Sarah Jenkins’s voice cut across the table like a gunshot. "When was the last time you personally examined Elena Harding in an exam room?"
Thorne blinked. "Well... I was the primary family physician. I conducted several informal consultations—"
"I asked for a date, Doctor," Sarah pressed, her eyes boring into him. "Did you examine her in January? February? March?"
"No," Thorne shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Her primary OB/GYN handled her prenatal care."
"In fact," Sarah produced a stack of bank statements from her folder and slid them across the marble table with a sharp flick of her wrist, "you haven't examined Elena Harding in over twenty-two months. What you *have* done, however, is receive three separate payments totaling one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars from *Vance-Harding Holdings, LLC*, labeled as 'specialized retainer fees,' right around the time Mr. Harding began drafting his contingency plan to have his wife institutionalized."
Thorne’s face turned the color of raw dough. "Those were... those were legitimate consulting retainers for corporate wellness programs—"
"We have already subpoenaed your corporate tax records and personal emails, Dr. Thorne," Sarah said, her voice dropping into an icy register. "Including an email dated August 14th where Mr. Sterling personally instructed you to draft a retroactive diagnosis of postpartum psychosis before Mrs. Harding had even given birth."
Sterling leaped to his feet. "Objection! This is completely privileged attorney-client work product! You are mischaracterizing preliminary legal research!"
"I am characterizing an active criminal conspiracy to commit medical fraud and false imprisonment, counselor!" Sarah shouted back, standing up and slamming her palm against the table.
On the video feed, Garrett’s smug smile vanished. He sat forward, his eyes darting frantically toward someone off-camera.
Evelyn’s knuckles were white as she gripped her crocodile-skin purse. "Marcus," she whispered, her voice tight with panic. "Handle this."
"Let’s move to the family trust," Sarah continued relentlessly, pulling another document from her briefcase. "Mr. Sterling, you claimed in your emergency petition that my client is seeking an 'unearned financial settlement.' But according to the forensic audit we conducted of the Vance-Harding Family Trust three days ago, Garrett Harding’s legal access to the fifty-million-dollar principal required two specific conditions: marriage, and a biological child surviving past thirty days."
Sarah leaned across the table, staring straight into Evelyn’s frozen, aristocratic face.
"Under Section 14, Subsection B of that trust, if Garrett Harding is convicted of a felony against the mother of his child, his entire beneficial interest is completely forfeited and transferred irrevocably into a protected custodial trust managed exclusively by—guess who? The child’s legal mother. Elena Harding."
The conference room went dead silent.
Evelyn looked like she had been struck in the face with an iron bar. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She turned her head slowly to look at the monitor where her son was sitting.
Garrett had known. He had always known.
His desperate, vicious rush to lock me in that bathroom wasn't just about his ego, or his need for control, or his hatred for me. It was about money. If I died on that floor, or if I was locked in an asylum, he got the fifty million. If I walked away and put him behind bars, he was left with nothing.
"We are done here," Sarah said, neatly snapping her leather portfolio shut. "See you in family court on Thursday, Mr. Sterling. Bring your checkbook. And tell your client to enjoy his ankle monitor while he can, because the next accessory he gets will be an orange jumpsuit."
May you like
Sarah took my uninjured arm, and we walked out of the conference room, leaving Marcus Sterling scrambling to silence Evelyn’s furious, hysterical shrieks echoing off the high glass walls.
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