Chapter 17 - Twenty
The assault trial began eight months after the night in the penthouse.
The financial case would come later.
The charges connected to Owen would be tried separately.
Matthew’s lawyers fought to exclude the video call.
They failed.
They fought to exclude my father’s phone recording.
They failed.
They argued the cane was a family heirloom unrelated to intent.
The judge allowed it into evidence.
I saw it for the first time since the assault.
The hickory had been placed inside a clear evidence bag.
A small dark stain remained near the handle.
My blood.
I expected panic.
Instead, I felt distance.
The object looked smaller than it had that night.
Power often did once it was placed behind plastic and assigned an evidence number.
I testified for almost five hours.
Matthew sat thirty feet away.
I did not look at him at first.
The prosecutor asked about our marriage.
NexusCore.
Isolation.
Previous incidents.
The night itself.
Then she asked the question.
“How many times did the defendant strike you with the cane?”
“Twenty.”
“How do you know?”
“I counted.”
“Why?”
“Because counting was the only thing I could control.”
The courtroom became silent.
She played the video.
I had watched it once before trial.
Once was enough.
The jury watched Matthew lift the cane.
They heard Lauren laugh nervously at first.
They heard Matthew say.
“Watch.”
They heard the first impact.
My body reacted before my mind did.
My hand gripped the witness stand.
The prosecutor paused.
“Do you need a moment?”
“No.”
The video continued.
Three.
Four.
Lauren’s voice changed.
“Matthew, stop.”
Five.
Six.
“Seriously.”
Seven.
Eight.
“Matthew, that’s enough.”
Nine.
Ten.
My recorded voice stopped pleading.
That was the moment I began counting silently.
The jury could see it.
My lips moving.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Lauren started crying.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
She told him to call an ambulance.
He ignored her.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
The prosecutor stopped the video before twenty.
“We do not need to play the remainder.”
Matthew’s lawyer objected.
“If the state relies on the claimed number—”
The judge looked at him.
“Counsel.”
He sat down.
The prosecutor asked.
“What happened after the twentieth strike?”
“He told me to clean myself up.”
“Then?”
“He left.”
“To go where?”
“I later learned he went to the Hamptons house.”
“With whom?”
“Lauren Thorne and their son.”
Matthew finally looked at me.
I met his eyes.
Nothing remained between us.
Not love.
Not fear.
Not even hatred.
His attorney cross-examined.
He asked about my father.
My therapy.
My anger over the affair.
The broken vase.
The glass in my hand.
Then he asked whether I had threatened to ruin Matthew.
“No.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Did you tell him your father could destroy him?”
“No.”
“Did you want your father to destroy him?”
The prosecutor objected.
The judge allowed a limited answer.
I looked toward the jury.
“I wanted my husband to stop hurting me.”
The attorney tried another direction.
“Mrs. Sterling, you are now economically benefiting from Mr. Hayes’s removal from NexusCore, correct?”
“No.”
“You regained shares.”
“I regained shares taken through documents I did not sign.”
“You became executive chair.”
“Interim.”
“You gained influence.”
“I returned to work.”
His expression tightened.
“Because Matthew was gone.”
I looked at him.
“Because I was alive.”
He stopped.
The jury noticed.
Lauren testified the next day.
She admitted the affair.
The secret child.
Marigold.
The false documents.
And the video.
Matthew refused to look at her.
Then she described the beginning of the assault.
“What did Mr. Hayes say before striking Clare?”
Lauren swallowed.
“He said I needed to see who actually mattered to him.”
The prosecutor asked.
“What did you understand that to mean?”
“That he was choosing me.”
“Did you ask him to hurt his wife?”
“No.”
“Did you initially encourage him?”
Lauren cried.
“Yes.”
The courtroom shifted.
“What did you say?”
“I told him he always talked like a tough man but never did anything.”
“Did you believe he would seriously hurt her?”
“No.”
“Did you call police once he did?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I was a coward.”
No excuse.
No deflection.
Just the word.
I watched the jury.
They believed her because she had finally stopped trying to look innocent.
My father testified briefly about the phone call.
Detective Ruiz testified about the scene.
Dr. Shah testified about my injuries.
The defense called Matthew.
Everyone was surprised.
Perhaps Matthew insisted.
Control demanded the final word.
He told the jury he regretted the night.
He said he lost control.
He said the marriage had become toxic.
He said I grabbed glass.
He said he believed he needed to defend himself.
Then the prosecutor stood.
“You struck her twenty times in self-defense?”
Matthew’s jaw tightened.
“I was panicked.”
“Twenty times?”
“I wasn’t counting.”
“She was.”
He looked toward me.
The prosecutor continued.
“You left her on the floor?”
“I believed she could stand.”
“With a broken arm?”
“I did not know it was broken.”
“Two cracked ribs?”
“I did not know.”
“Blood on the floor?”
“She cut her hand on glass.”
“You caused her to fall into the glass.”
“No.”
The prosecutor approached the screen.
She replayed the second strike.
My body hit the table.
The vase fell.
Glass shattered.
The prosecutor looked at him.
“You were saying?”
Matthew’s face reddened.
“I don’t remember every second.”
“You remember enough to tell Lauren you had ‘handled it.’”
He said nothing.
“You remember enough to tell her Clare needed a lesson.”
Silence.
“You remember enough to drive to the Hamptons.”
Silence.
Then the prosecutor asked one final question.
“Mr. Hayes, when you told your wife to clean herself up, did you believe she was a danger to you?”
Matthew looked at me.
His answer came too slowly.
“Yes.”
Nobody in the courtroom believed him.
The jury deliberated six hours.
Guilty.
Felony assault.
Unlawful imprisonment-related coercive conduct on an associated count.
Violation-related evidence was reserved for sentencing.
Matthew did not react when the verdict was read.
I did.
I exhaled.
That was all.
No triumph.
No applause.
No cinematic satisfaction.
Just air leaving lungs that had been tight for eight months.
Outside the courthouse, reporters shouted questions.
I walked past them.
My father followed.
Then one reporter called.
“Mrs. Sterling, what does justice feel like?”
I stopped.
For a moment, cameras flashed.
Then I answered.
“Justice does not undo anything.”
“It simply stops the person who hurt you from being the only one allowed to define what happened.”
May you like
I walked away.
Behind me, Matthew Hayes disappeared through another door in handcuffs.
