Chapter 7 - The Deposition
The deposition was held on the forty-second floor of a glass skyscraper in downtown Dallas, overlooking the sweeping skyline of the city.
The conference room was freezing. High-backed leather chairs lined a thirty-foot oak table, and three court reporters set up audio-visual equipment in the corner.
My father sat at the far end of the table, flanked by Harrison Vance and Tyler. Mom sat behind them in the gallery chairs, clutching a designer handbag, looking nervous and out of place.
Tyler wore a new suit—likely bought on credit—and gave me a cold, arrogant glare as I walked in. He still believed this was a game of leverage, still believed his father was going to force me to sign over a chunk of my fortune.
I sat opposite them, wearing a sharp charcoal suit, my hands folded calmly on the table. Marcus sat to my left, his blue folder resting unopened in front of him.
Harrison Vance cleared his throat, leaning into his microphone.
“We are on the record for the deposition of Maren Donovan in the matter of Donovan v. Donovan. We are prepared to discuss settlement terms today if the defendant is ready to make a reasonable offer regarding her equity stake in Vanguard Tech.”
Dad leaned forward, fixing me with his trademark, terrifying stare—the stare that used to make me shrink in my seat when I was a teenager.
“Maren,” Dad said, his voice dropping into a low, controlling murmur. “We don't have to air our family business in front of court reporters. Sign over a twenty percent non-voting equity share to your brother, write off Tyler’s mortgage debt, and this entire lawsuit goes away. We can be a family again.”
We can be a family again.
The hollow, transactional nature of his love was almost mesmerizing.
I didn't answer him. I looked at Marcus.
Marcus didn't open his mouth. He simply opened the blue folder, pulled out three stapled sets of documents, and slid them across the long oak table toward Harrison Vance, my father, and Tyler.
“What is this?” Vance asked, frowning as he picked up the papers.
“Those are the financial sub-ledgers for Donovan Commercial Properties LLC from 2018 to the present,” Marcus said smoothly. “Specifically, pages fourteen through eighty-two detail forty-six separate wire transfers from your corporate escrow account into Tyler Donovan’s personal checking accounts.”
Dad’s face went from pale to ghostly white in less than two seconds.
His hand, resting on the mahogany table, began to tremble violently.
Tyler picked up the paper, oblivious to what he was looking at. “What is this garbage? These are just bank numbers!”
“Those 'bank numbers,' Tyler,” Marcus explained calmly, “represent $1,420,000 in unauthorized capital conversions executed by your father from an account co-owned by his business partners, Mr. Miller, Mr. Henderson, and Dr. Aris.”
Harrison Vance stopped reading. His eyes went wide as saucers. He snapped his head toward my father. “Arthur... what is this?”
Dad couldn't speak. His throat worked silently, his chest heaving under his crisp white dress shirt.
Mom stood up from her chair in the gallery, her face filled with confusion. “Arthur? What are they talking about? What partners?”
Marcus leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his voice cutting through the room like a scalpel.
“Mr. Donovan,” Marcus said to my father. “You filed this lawsuit claiming your daughter used family capital to build her company. But the truth—the indisputable, legally binding truth—is that you spent six years stealing from your own business partners to fund your son’s lifestyle. And when your partners requested a formal audit two months ago, you realized you were facing federal fraud charges unless you could find $1.4 million to plug the hole in your ledger.”
The room went dead, terrifyingly silent.
The court reporter’s fingers froze over her stenography machine.
Tyler looked between his father and the papers, his arrogant expression cracking, replaced by a slow, creeping terror. “Dad... Dad, what is he saying? You told me that money was from your private bonus fund!”
Dad slowly buried his face in his trembling hands. He didn't answer. He couldn't.
“This deposition is over,” Harrison Vance said abruptly, slamming the file shut, his voice shaking with professional horror. “We are withdrawing the complaint immediately.”
“Not so fast, Mr. Vance,” Marcus said, holding up a finger.
Dad slowly raised his head, his eyes hollow, broken, and terrified. He looked at me—not as a commander, not as a father, but as a condemned man looking at his executioner.
“Maren...” Dad whispered, his voice cracking, completely devoid of pride. “Please. Don't do this. I’m your father.”
I looked at him for a long, quiet moment.
I remembered the cold rain outside the restaurant in downtown Dallas. I remembered the way my heart had shattered when he casually asked me to pay for Tyler’s mortgage while everyone applauded. I remembered the years I spent believing I wasn't worthy of love because I was the strong one, the independent one, the daughter who didn't need help.
“You asked me at that dinner if I would cover Tyler’s expenses,” I said, my voice echoing soft and clear through the massive conference room. “You told me I was doing well, so it wouldn't hurt me.”
I stood up from my chair, buttoning my charcoal blazer.
“It hurts now, doesn't it, Arthur?” I whispered.
May you like
I turned to Marcus. “Give them twenty-four hours to sign a full, unconditional waiver of all claims, a complete non-disclosure agreement, and a formal surrender of any legal standing regarding my life. If it isn't signed by noon tomorrow, send the blue folder to the United States Attorney’s Office and his business partners.”
I picked up my leather clutch, turned my back on the broken titan, his terrified son, and my weeping mother, and walked out of the room.
