The six weeks between the FBI’s polite, menacing visit and the day of the hearing were a masterclass in legal warfare, orchestrated by Anya Sharma. The world saw only silence from my end, a silence that the media and Mark’s PR machine eagerly filled with speculation about my flight risk, my mental state, and my imminent indictment as a domestic terrorist.
They didn't see the reality: a hermetically sealed hotel suite converted into a war room, where Anya’s team of forensic accountants, cybersecurity analysts, and junior litigators worked in shifts, dissecting every byte of data I’d provided. They didn't see me, sitting for hours in depositions, my voice a calm monotone as I walked investigators through three years of code, corporate structuring, and Mark’s escalating betrayals.
Mark and
