Chapter 7 - Desperation and Despair
The Maricopa County Central Booking facility was freezing cold, smelling of cheap disinfectant, floor wax, and misery.
Christian sat on a metal bench inside a communal holding cell, his tailored shirt rumpled and torn at the seam. For forty-eight hours, he had experienced a reality he had never dreamed existed: coarse wool blankets, lukewarm baloney sandwiches, and the terrifying silence of people who had no reason to indulge his ego.
He was finally granted a monitored phone call on Sunday morning.
He dialed Sienna’s private personal number. To his shock, the line rang three times and connected.
“Sienna?” Christian gasped into the receiver, pressing the heavy plastic against his ear with trembling hands. “Sienna, please! Please don’t hang up!”
Silence hung on the line for two agonizing seconds. Then, her voice came through—calm, detached, and utterly unbothered.
“I am listening, Christian. Maya is recording this call for the court record.”
“Sienna, this has gone too far!” Christian sobbed, tears finally breaking past his defenses. “Look at where I am! I’m in county jail! Chloe is in central holding, having panic attacks! Mom is staying in a shelter because she has no money for a hotel room! How can you be so cruel? We were married for five years!”
“You lunged at me while my lip was bleeding from your mother’s strike,” Sienna replied, each word measured and cold. “You stole nearly six hundred thousand dollars from my consulting firm through a shell company. You attempted to blackmail me with falsified records to destroy my career. Which part of that was the marriage, Christian?”
“It was Mom!” Christian pleaded desperately, throwing his own mother under the bus without hesitation. “She pushed me into it! She was always whispering in my ear that you didn't love me, that you were using your money to control me! She demanded that money every month, Sienna! I only set up the Apex account because I couldn't handle her constant nagging! Please… talk to the DA. Drop the charges. Tell them it was a marital misunderstanding. I’ll sign whatever you want. I’ll sign a post-nup. I’ll never let my mother speak to you again!”
“You still don't understand, do you?” Sienna said softly. “Your mother didn’t make you a coward, Christian. She just gave you permission to be one.”
“Sienna, please! I love you!” he wailed into the glass. “You can’t leave me like this!”
“The only thing you loved was the comfort my exhaustion bought you,” Sienna said. “My attorneys have rejected bail assistance. Your court-appointed public defender will meet you tomorrow morning. Goodbye, Christian.”
“Sienna! Sienna—”
The line went dead.
Across town, in a modest consultation room at a downtown legal aid clinic, Gwen Sterling sat across from an overworked, exhausted attorney who smelled of cheap aftershave.
“What do you mean, you can’t get me alimony?” Gwen shrieked, slamming her palm against the desk. “She made millions while married to my son! Under Arizona law, we are entitled to maintenance!”
The public attorney rubbed his temples, looking at the mountain of court filings Maya Vance had delivered.
“Mrs. Sterling, you were not married to Sienna Mercer. Your son was. And your son signed a binding pre-marital agreement that explicitly waives spousal support in the event of domestic abuse or financial malfeasance. Furthermore, the state has initiated criminal proceedings against you for physical assault. In three weeks, the IRS will seize every bank account associated with your Social Security number to satisfy four hundred and twenty thousand dollars in back taxes and penalties.”
Gwen stared at him, her lips trembling. “What am I supposed to live on?”
The attorney pushed a small pamphlet across the desk. “This is the intake form for senior transitional housing in Maricopa County. You qualify for an eight-hundred-dollar monthly state stipend once your legal cases are adjudicated. I suggest you fill it out.”
May you like
Gwen looked down at the cheap paper. The glossy illusions of yacht parties, European cruises, and thirty-thousand-dollar monthly allowances dissolved into the harsh, fluorescent reality of her own making.
***
