The Execution
They said money couldn’t buy happiness, but Mason Sterling believed it could buy him freedom. He walked into the Manhattan High Court wearing a $5,000 suit, holding his mistress’s hand, ready to cut his wife loose with pennies on the dollar. He thought he was the king of the boardroom and the courtroom.
He was wrong. He didn’t know that the quiet woman sitting at the defense table had spent 20 years building a trap so intricate he wouldn’t see it until the jaws snapped shut. This isn’t just a divorce.
It’s an execution. The heavy oak doors of the Southern District of New York courthouse didn’t just open—they were pushed wide by a security detail that cost more than most people’s mortgages. Flashbulbs popped like strobe lights in a nightclub, blinding and rhythmic, bouncing off the polished marble floors.
Mason Sterling stepped into the chaos with the grin of a man who had already read the final script. At 48, Mason was the face of Sterling & Co., a tech conglomerate that had recently swallowed the artificial intelligence market whole. He was handsome in a rugged, manufactured way—teeth veneered to perfection, skin tanned from a week in Saint-Tropez, jawline that seemed to defy gravity.
But the cameras weren’t just there for him. They were there for the woman hanging onto his arm, draped in a red silk dress that was entirely inappropriate for a morning hearing. Juliana “Jules” Moretti, 24 years old, an influencer with 3 million followers and, according to the tabloids, the future Mrs.
Sterling. She smirked at the press, clutching a limited-edition Birkin bag, looking less like a defendant in a divorce proceeding and more like she was arriving at the Met Gala. “Mr.
Sterling, is it true you’re offering her $10 million to walk away?” a reporter shouted from behind the velvet rope. Mason paused, adjusting his cufflinks. He winked.
“I’m a generous man, Dave. But let’s just say I believe in fair market value.”
The crowd laughed. Mason Sterling always played to the crowd.
He strutted down the center aisle of the courtroom, Jules clicking along beside him in stilettos that echoed sharply against the wood. He nodded to his legal team—a phalanx of sharks led by Silas Brock, a man known in New York legal circles as “the Butcher.”
Brock was already arranging his papers, looking bored. “Sit down, Mason.
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