Chapter 16: The Number Ten
The sentencing hearing was a quiet affair compared to the media circus of the trial.
There were no gasps from the gallery. No outbursts. Just the cold, clinical reality of the justice system finally doing its job.
Preston stood before Judge Harrison in his orange jumpsuit, his hands shackled to his waist. He looked incredibly small. The golden boy who had once worn custom Italian silk and commanded the fear of everyone in his orbit was now just Inmate 87402.
"Mr. Hayes," the judge’s voice echoed through the wood-paneled room. "You have pled guilty to aggravated battery of a child and flight to avoid prosecution. Do you have anything to say before this court imposes its sentence?"
Preston swallowed hard. He slowly turned his head to look at me in the gallery.
"Evelyn," his voice cracked. It was frail, stripped of all its former arrogance. "I'm sorry. I was desperate. I was out of my mind with the debt, and I... I didn't mean to hurt her that badly. Please. Tell Sophie I'm sorry."
I didn't blink. I didn't nod. I just stared at him with eyes as cold as the marble floor he had stained with my daughter's blood.
He was only sorry because he was caught. He was only sorry because his master plan had blown up in his face. If the camera hadn't been recording, he would be sipping champagne in Dubai right now while I drowning in legal bills trying to defend my child.
I gave him nothing.
Preston turned back to the judge, a tear slipping down his bruised cheek.
"The court does not find your remorse compelling, Mr. Hayes," Judge Harrison said dryly. "You used a child as a pawn in a financial scheme, you violently assaulted her when you were challenged, and you used your family's vast resources in a cowardly attempt to flee the country."
The judge picked up his gavel.
"Preston Hayes, I sentence you to ten years in the Illinois State Penitentiary, without the possibility of parole for the first seven years."
The gavel slammed down. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Preston’s knees gave out. A court officer had to grab him by the armpits to keep him from collapsing completely. As they dragged him through the heavy wooden side doors, he didn't look back.
Ten years.
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By the time he got out, Sophie would be heading to college. He would be in his forties, a convicted felon with no money, no network, and no future.
I stood up, smoothed my skirt, and walked out of the courtroom. The air outside felt lighter.
