Chapter 7 - The Deposition
Three weeks later.
The air inside the high-rise conference room in downtown Columbus was suffocatingly sterile. Glass walls overlooked the foggy autumn skyline, but inside, the atmosphere was thick with hostility.
Michael and I sat on one side of the massive mahogany conference table, flanked by Marcus Vance.
Across from us sat Carol and her attorney, Richard Sterling.
Carol was dressed impeccably in a pastel blue Chanel suit, her silver hair styled into a perfect, impenetrable helmet. She wore pearl earrings and held a soft linen handkerchief in her lap, playing the frail, heartbroken mother to absolute perfection.
Her attorney, Sterling—a man with sharp, predatory eyes and a artificial white smile—adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and tapped his pen against a legal pad.
"Let the record show," Sterling began, his voice smooth and dripping with patronizing arrogance, "that this is the deposition of Michael Miller in the matter of Miller v. Miller, Case Number 26-CV-8849."
A court reporter sat at the end of the table, her fingers flying across the keys of her steno machine with rhythmic precision.
Sterling leaned forward, locking eyes with Michael. "Mr. Miller, you claim that on the night of October 16th, your mother, Mrs. Carol Miller, intentionally locked your stepdaughter in a utility room. Is that correct?"
"She is my daughter," Michael corrected instantly, his voice a low, lethal growl. "And yes. She forced Lucy into the breakfast nook and told her she didn't belong with my real children."
"Ah, yes," Sterling smiled thin. "The word real. Let’s talk about that word, Mr. Miller. Isn't it true that you have no biological connection to the child, Lucy?"
"Objection," Marcus Vance interjected firmly. "Biological relation is irrelevant to the legal status of an ongoing adoption proceeding."
"Overruled by common sense," Sterling countered smoothly, turning back to Michael. "Mr. Miller, isn't it true that you met the child’s mother, Rebecca, when the child was three years old?"
"Yes."
"And isn't it true that you have two biological children—Madeline, age sixteen, and Owen, age thirteen—from your previous marriage to Sarah Miller?"
"Yes."
"And isn't it true," Sterling leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "that your mother, Mrs. Carol Miller, has provided hundreds of thousands of dollars in financial support to Madeline and Owen over their lifetimes? College savings funds, trust contributions, European vacations?"
"My father set up those trusts before he died," Michael stated coldly. "Not my mother."
"But your mother controls the disbursement of those trust funds, does she not?" Sterling pressed, a cold glint in his eye. "And isn't it a fact, Mr. Miller, that you became enraged on the night of October 16th because your mother refused to extend those multi-million dollar trust fund benefits to a child who is legally and biologically a complete stranger to the Miller family legacy?"
I gasped out loud. "That is an absolute, disgusting fabrication!"
"Control your client, Vance," Sterling snapped, barely glancing at me. "Answer the question, Mr. Miller. Did you stage this entire confrontation—and release a illegally recorded video to humiliate your mother—because she refused to write your stepdaughter into your father’s multi-million dollar estate?"
Michael didn't flinch. He slowly leaned forward across the mahogany table until he was mere inches from Sterling’s face.
"My father," Michael said, every word dripping with absolute ice, "was a man of profound honor. He taught me that a real man protects his family—all of his family. He built that estate with his own bare hands, and if he were alive today to see his wife lock a seven-year-old child in a closet because she didn't share his DNA, he would turn over in his grave with absolute shame."
Carol let out a dramatic, trembling sob, pressing her linen handkerchief to her eyes. "Oh, Michael! How can you speak of your poor father like that? You’re heartless!"
"I am protecting my child," Michael said, shifting his glare directly onto his mother. "And no amount of money, no legal intimidation, and no slick lawyer is ever going to force me to expose my daughter to your toxicity again."
"Is that so?" Sterling smiled, completely unfazed by Michael’s passion. He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick, blue-bound folder. He slid it across the table toward Marcus Vance.
"What is this?" Marcus asked, frowning as he opened the file.
"That," Sterling said, leaning back in his leather chair with supreme confidence, "is a formal subpoena for the medical and psychological records of Rebecca Miller from her previous marriage. Including the full transcript of her hospital admission six years ago following her divorce from her ex-husband."
My heart instantly dropped into my stomach. My breath caught in my throat.
Six years ago, in the dark, suffocating months after my ex-husband abandoned me while I was pregnant, I had suffered from severe postpartum depression and panic disorder. I had voluntarily checked myself into a wellness clinic for five days to get proper therapy and medication so I could be a healthy mother for my baby.
It was the bravest, most responsible thing I had ever done in my life.
And Carol’s lawyer was turning it into a weapon.
"We intend to demonstrate to the Guardian ad Litem," Sterling announced with cold, calculated precision, "that Rebecca Miller has a documented history of severe psychological instability. We will argue that her unstable mental state has created an environment of parental alienation, where she aggressively manipulates Mr. Miller and projects her own deep-seated trauma onto my client."
Sterling stood up, buttoning his suit jacket.
"We are petitioning the court tomorrow morning for an immediate Court-Ordered Psychological Evaluation of both parents, and a complete suspension of the adoption proceedings pending a full mental fitness investigation of Rebecca Miller."
Carol lowered her handkerchief. Her eyes were completely dry.
May you like
She looked across the table at me, her lips curling into a triumphant, razor-sharp smile.
"I told you, Rebecca," Carol whispered softly, her voice filled with pure, unadulterated venom. "You should have swallowed it and kept the party peaceful."
