I am stepping out of the FBI offsite building with my phone clutched in one hand and my nerves barely stitched together. After what feels like hours of grilling from Agents Collin and Reed, no bullshit types with stone faces and folders full of accusations. I am finally free to go. But the word "free" feels like a cruel joke. Nothing about today is freedom."
Carl is standing next to my car, and I tell him to drive straight to my office. My heart is pounding, but I am still thinking maybe, just maybe, this is all some weird mix-up. Maybe people will believe me. Or secretly, I am wishing this is all my nightmare, and soon I will wake up.
The second I swipe my keycard at the front entrance, it buzzes red. Denied.
"What the hell?" I mutter under my breath, yanking at the handle. That is when Dylan pops into the lobby, holding a phone in one hand. He looks like he hasn't slept for days. Of course, orchestrating a trap for me was a full-time job.
"Anaya," he says, scratching the back of his neck, not meeting my eyes.
"Dylan. Open the fucking door." I demand, stepping close to the door. "I need to get to my desk."
"You...can't," he says, like he has been rehearsing this for days. "The board decided this morning. You are out. They freeze your access. I am supposed to tell you to take your personal stuff and leave."
I blink and flare my nostrils. "Personal stuff? This whole building is my personal stuff, and who the fuck are you to tell me all this?"
Dylan nods, shifts uncomfortably. "I didn't want it to be me, okay? But they made me do it."
As I step inside, every familiar hallway suddenly feels foreign. The click of my heels echoes as if I am trespassing. My own office, a place I built from scratch, is now looking sterile and cold.
A stranger's domain. I throw my stuff into a box, numb and trembling, when my phone buzzes again.
Court Summons Notification
I stare at the screen like it might explode. "No. No, no, no."
The hit keeps coming.
The moment Carl pulls up to my mansion...my mansion...only to be stopped at the gate.
"Ma'am, you can't enter," one of the guards said, stiff and apologetic.
"What? You know me."
"Orders from Ethan. We were told not to let you inside."
"Ethan?" My voice cracks. "You are kidding. He can't just kick me out like that. This is our shared property."
"Sorry," the other guard mumbles, avoiding my eyes.
Carl also gets out of the car and keeps his eyes on the ground. I get out of the car and walk to the driver's seat, and drive to a nearby hotel.
I try checking into a hotel, but every attempt fails. Cards decline. Frozen assets. I can't even book a damn room for myself. In desperation, I dial Cole again. Still off.
I have only one person left.
I show up at Autumn's apartment and walk straight into hell. The front door is wide open, with boxes stacked along the walls. Inside, she is locking lips with none other than Ethan.
"What the...?"
They break apart, and Autumn shrugs. "I am moving in with him."
My jaw drops. "Seriously? Since when have you all been plotting against me?"
Ethan smugly gives a little laugh. "Because Autumn and I don't want any crowd in our mansion."
He adds. "And by the way, last night Autumn wasn't with any client, and I wasn't doing any fucking podcast."
I don't say a word. I can't. I turn and walk aimlessly. My designer heels click down cracked sidewalks. No plan. No destination. Just numb for two days straight.
I am standing in line at a soup kitchen, eyes hollow, stomach aching. I haven't eaten in two days. The bowl of warm stew they handed me made my eyes sting.
This is my life now.
Rock bottom.
I am standing in front of the judge's bench. I am wearing the same clothes from a week ago. The bailiff calls my name. "Anaya Brooks is charged with conspiracy to commit fraud, wire fraud, and obstruction of justice.
My stomach drops when Judge Thompson asks. "Miss Brooks, do you have legal counsel present today?"
I swallow hard. "No, your honor. I can't afford one."
"You are stating you are indigent?"
"I nod. "Yes, ma'am. I am bankrupt. All my accounts are frozen."
The judge gives a brief nod. "Very well. You'll be assigned a public defender."
The judge continues. "You are being charged with multiple counts of corporate fraud and financial conspiracy. These are federal offenses. Do you understand the seriousness of these charges?"
I whisper. "I do."
A man in a gray suit steps forward from the back. "I am Jack Morgan from the Public Defender's office. I'll represent Miss Anaya Brooks."
The judge says. "Your arraignment is set for two weeks from today. Until then, Mr. Jack Morgan will receive discovery and begin preparing your defense. Do you intend to plead guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty," I say it louder this time.
"Then we'll proceed to trial unless a plea deal is negotiated."
The gravel hit the wood.
Later, Jack pulls me aside near the elevator. "I have seen a lot of messy cases, Anaya, but yours? It smells like a setup. We are gonna dig. Hard. But you need to be straight with me."
"I am," I say. "I didn't do this. I have been trapped in all this."
Jack nods. "Then we fight."
Jack adds. "But you need to be ready because it's not a quick fix. This will be a full trial...judge and jury. And the prosecution's gonna paint you as cold-blooded fraud with a million-dollar smile."
My fingers knotted together. "They already did."
He starts his preparation for the trial. No plea deals.
In the following weeks, Jack digs in. He flags inconsistencies in the timestamps, reviews employee access logs, and hires a digital forensics consultant to trace the manipulated date. But still, proving me innocent isn't easy when the system is already corrupt.
Trial Day comes fast.
I am standing in the defendant's chair, suit pressed, jaw tight. Hopeful. The courtroom is buzzing with tension as the jury files in. Across the aisle, the prosecution looks confident.
Jack looks at me before opening statements. "Whatever happens, don't lose that fire in you. They don't get to take that, too."
The trial stretches for days...witnesses, exhibits, heated cross-examinations. I watch it all like an out-of-body experience. My life lies bare, picked apart in front of twelve strangers.
When the jury returns, my heart nearly gives out.
"Guilty," the foreman says.
I don't cry. I don't scream.
I just stare ahead as the judge begins reading the sentencing guidelines.
Rock bottom has a basement.