Since you brought her to Christmas, I brought someone too, his pregnant nurse wife said before the Chicago boss walked in

On a freezing Tuesday morning in early January, the third-floor courtroom was packed to capacity. Financial journalists, federal prosecutors, defense attorneys, and curious onlookers murmured quietly among themselves as the bailiff banged his gavel.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Elizabeth Vance presiding.”

Judge Vance, a stern-faced woman with iron-gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, walked briskly to the bench, seated herself, and adjusted her microphone.

“Be seated.”

Matthias Dre was led into the courtroom through the side door by two federal marshals. He wore a standard orange jumpsuit, his wrists and ankles shackled. His hair was uncombed, his face drawn and pale, and the arrogant, polished aura that had once defined him in the boardrooms of Manhattan was completely gone, replaced by the hollow, haunted look of a man who had finally realized the game was over.

At the defense table sat two high-priced attorneys hired by his parents—though Arthur and Eleanor Dre were noticeably absent from the gallery, unwilling to face the public humiliation of their son’s trial.

“We are here for the formal arraignment in the matter of United States versus Matthias Dre,” Judge Vance announced, her voice echoing sharply in the quiet room. “The defendant is facing six counts of wire fraud, four counts of bank manipulation, two counts of money laundering, and conspiracy to obstruct justice. How does the defendant plead?”

Matthias stood up, looking toward his lead defense attorney, who whispered something urgently in his ear.

Matthias swallowed hard, his throat dry, his hands trembling inside the heavy steel cuffs.

“Not... not guilty, Your Honor,” Matthias muttered, his voice cracking.

A murmur rippled through the gallery.

Lead prosecutor Assistant U.S. Attorney David Vance stood up smoothly, buttoning his suit jacket. “Your Honor, given the severity of the charges, the overwhelming documentary and digital evidence secured by federal investigators—including extensive financial ledgers and internal communications—the government moves for remand without bail. The defendant represents an extreme flight risk, having already attempted to liquidate hidden offshore assets as recently as forty-eight hours ago.”

“Your Honor!” Matthias’s defense attorney scrambled to his feet. “My client has deep community ties, a pregnant—ah, estranged wife, and prominent family roots in the state. We request a reasonable bond set at—”

“Denied,” Judge Vance said instantly, her gavel striking the wooden block with a sharp, final crack. “The defendant is charged with systematic financial crimes designed to defraud investors and employees of millions of dollars, coupled with active attempts to obstruct federal oversight. Mr. Dre will be held without bail at the federal detention facility in Danbury pending trial.”

Matthias slumped back into his chair, burying his face in his cuffed hands as the marshals stepped forward to escort him away.

As they hauled him toward the side exit, Matthias caught sight of someone sitting in the front row of the gallery.

Serena Paige sat alone in the wooden pew, wearing a simple navy blue maternity coat, her dark hair falling softly around her shoulders. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't sneering. She was simply looking at him with calm, detached indifference—the look a doctor gives a disease that has finally been excised from the body.

Matthias stopped for a fraction of a second, his eyes locking onto hers with a desperate, pathetic pleading.

Serena didn't flinch. She didn't look away.