Chapter 7 - The DepositionThe settlement deposition took place in late February on the fortieth floor of a glass skyscraper in Midtown.
The conference room was ice cold, overlooking the misty expanse of the East River. On one side of the massive mahogany table sat Evelyn Reed, Clara, and myself. On the other side sat Ambrose’s new lead attorney—a harsh, aggressive man named Donald Vance—and Ambrose himself.
I barely recognized him.
He had lost at least fifteen pounds. His tailored suit hung loosely off his broad shoulders, his dark hair was streaked with gray around the temples, and his eyes were hollowed out by severe insomnia. He didn't carry his usual leather briefcase or gold fountain pen. He sat with his hands folded in his lap, staring at me with an intensity that felt almost physical.
Donald Vance slammed a heavy stack of papers onto the table.
"Mrs. Blackwell," Vance began aggressively, "we are here today to offer a final, highly generous settlement. My client is willing to offer you thirty percent of his remaining liquid assets, the townhouse in West Village, and full primary custody of the child, provided you sign a strict non-disclosure agreement regarding his business operations and drop all claims against the Blackwell Family Trust."
Evelyn laughed out loud—a sharp, cutting sound that made Vance flinch.
"Thirty percent?" Evelyn mocked. "Mr. Vance, do you take my client for an amateur? Mrs. Jacqueline Blackwell was a founding partner of Blackwell Capital before it restructured into Blackwell Global. She owns twelve percent of the voting shares under her maiden name, which your client illegally attempted to dilute three years ago."
Vance’s face darkened. "Those shares were subject to a post-nuptial agreement!"
"A post-nuptial agreement," Evelyn countered smoothly, pulling a document from her leather folder, "that was signed while my client was recovering from anesthesia after an emergency appendectomy in 2022. We have the hospital records, Mr. Vance. That agreement is legally void due to coercion and lack of mental capacity."
Vance turned to Ambrose, whispering frantically in his ear. "Ambrose, did you make her sign that in the hospital?"
Ambrose didn't answer his lawyer. He didn't even look at him. His eyes remained locked on my face, taking in my glowing skin, my neatly styled brown hair, and the prominent, round curve of my seven-month pregnant belly beneath my navy blue maternity coat.
"Jackie," Ambrose said, his voice raspy and quiet.
"Speak through your council, Mr. Blackwell," Evelyn snapped.
"Shut up, Donald," Ambrose commanded his attorney, his voice suddenly regaining a flash of its old, absolute authority.
Donald Vance gaped at his client. "Ambrose, I am trying to protect what’s left of your estate—"
"I said shut up," Ambrose repeated calmly. He leaned across the polished table, reaching out his hands, though he didn't dare cross the center line. "Jackie... please look at me."
I met his gaze. I didn't hide my belly. I didn't hide my strength.
"I don't care about the shares," Ambrose whispered, tears welling up in his dark eyes. "I don't care about the board, or the stock, or the money. Donald, draft a document giving her fifty-one percent of everything. Give her the penthouse. Give her the European accounts. Give her full legal custody of our daughter."
Donald Vance stood up so fast his leather chair fell backward. "Ambrose! Are you insane?! That’s complete financial capitulation! You’ll be left with almost nothing!"
"I already have nothing!" Ambrose suddenly roared, slamming his fist onto the mahogany table so hard the water glasses rattled. He stood up, towering over his lawyer, his face flushed with raw, unfiltered agony. "I lost my wife! I lost my child! I lost the only woman who ever loved me for who I was when I was a nobody sleeping on a fold-out couch!"
He turned back to me, his chest heaving, tears streaming down his face without shame.
"Take it all, Jackie," Ambrose sobbed, sinking back into his chair and putting his face in his hands. "Take every single cent I ever made. Just... just please let me name our daughter. Please... just give me that one thing."
The room was dead quiet. Evelyn looked at me, her sharp eyes softening with rare surprise. Clara held her breath beside me.
I looked at the broken man sitting across from me—the man who had held the world in his hands and traded it away for cheap validation and corporate greed. He was paying the ultimate price for his choices, not because I had destroyed him, but because the truth had finally stripped away his illusions.
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"Her name is Grace," I said softly into the silence. "Grace Victoria Vance."
Ambrose sobbed harder into his hands, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. "Grace..." he repeated, the word sounding like a prayer on his lips. "It’s... it’s beautiful."
