Chapter 9 - The Visit
Four weeks later, the visiting room of the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn smelled of industrial bleach, stale coffee, and despair.
Ethan Calloway sat at a small plastic table bolted to the concrete floor.
He wore an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit stamped with federal property numbers across the back.
His golden hair had been sheared down to a rough, uneven buzz cut.
His face was gaunt, his cheekbones protruding sharply beneath pale, yellowish skin.
He had two dark bruises under his left eye—the result of a disagreement over a television remote in the common room three days prior.
The heavy steel door at the end of the room buzzed open.
Ethan sat up straight, his heart leaping into his throat.
He had requested visits from twelve different people over the past month.
His mother had refused to answer his letters, having moved into a small guest cottage owned by a distant cousin in Georgia, bitter and furious at her son for dragging her into poverty.
His corporate friends had blocked his calls.
His former fraternity brothers had changed their numbers.
Only one person had accepted the visitation request.
Grace walked into the room.
She wore a tailored navy maternity coat that fell neatly to her knees.
Her hair was tied back in an elegant chignon, her face glowing with health and serenity.
She did not look like a woman embroiled in a corporate scandal.
She looked like a queen visiting a dungeon.
She sat down across the plastic table from him, placing her hands in her lap.
She did not reach out to touch him.
She did not smile.
She simply looked at him.
Ethan stared at her through the plexiglass divider, his lip trembling violently.
“Grace,” he whispered, his voice cracking against the glass.
“You came.”
“I came to bring you the final paperwork, Ethan,” Grace said, her tone as measured as a judge delivering a verdict.
She slid an envelope through the slot beneath the glass.
Ethan looked down at it.
“What is it?” he asked, afraid to touch the paper.
“The final decree of absolute divorce,” Grace said.
“Signed by the presiding judge this morning.”
“You are officially no longer my husband.”
Ethan closed his eyes, a dry sob tearing from his chest.
“Grace, please,” he begged, pressing his hands against the scratched plexiglass.
“Look at me.”
“Look at what they’ve done to me.”
“I am sleeping on a concrete slab.”
“The guards treat me like an animal.”
“I can’t survive four years in this place, Grace!”
“You have the power to talk to the prosecutor.”
“Declan has the Justice Department in his pocket!”
“You can get me transferred to a minimum-security camp in Pennsylvania!”
Grace tilted her head slightly, her gaze unwavering.
“Why would I do that, Ethan?” she asked.
Ethan blinked in shock.
“Because we were married!” he yelled, drawing a sharp, warning glare from the armed guard standing by the door.
“Because I am the father of your baby!”
“You are not the father of my baby,” Grace corrected him with chilling finality.
“You surrendered your parental rights in exchange for forty-eight months off your sentence.”
“You signed the document, Ethan.”
“Your signature was notarized.”
“Legally, biologically, and morally, you do not exist to her.”
Ethan’s face twisted into an ugly, desperate mask.
“You tricked me!” he hissed.
“You and Declan planned this from the very beginning!”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“Did you sleep with Declan Pierce while you were carrying my child?”
Grace didn't even blink at the insult.
She simply stood up from the plastic chair, smoothing the fabric of her navy coat over her swollen stomach.
“Declan Pierce is a man of honor, Ethan,” Grace said calmly.
“A concept you have never understood and will never possess.”
“He treats me with respect.”
“He treats my daughter with devotion.”
“And unlike you, he has never stolen a single penny from the people who trusted him.”
Grace turned to leave.
“Grace!” Ethan screamed, lunging against the table, the plastic creaking under his weight.
“Don't walk away from me!”
“You can’t leave me here!”
“I am an executive!”
“I am a Calloway!”
Grace stopped at the heavy steel door.
She turned back to look at him one last time.
“You are not an executive, Ethan,” Grace said, her voice ringing clearly across the quiet visiting room.
“And you were never a Calloway.”
“You were just a temporary mistake that I have officially corrected.”
The guard buzzed the lock.
The steel door opened.
May you like
Grace stepped through it into the bright afternoon sunlight, leaving Ethan screaming her name into the empty, indifferent room.
***
