StoriesBlog “Mr. Valentine… I wanted to thank you,” Short said, “for helping catch them. My family… we lost everything. Our house, our savings, my marriage. My daughter won’t speak to me because she believed the things they threatened to release. Your wife and her people… they didn’t just take money. They took my life.”
“I’m sorry,” Tristan said, feeling the inadequacy of the words. “If I’d known sooner…”
“You couldn’t have known. These people are professionals. They make you believe whatever they want you to believe.” Short’s voice hardened. “I’m glad she’s going to prison. I hope she rots there.”
As the hearing continued over the next two days, more victims came forward. A city councilman who had been blackmailed over a fabricated affair. A doctor who had been photographed in a compromising position with Carrie Carroll and threatened with exposure unless he paid. A venture capitalist who had handed over three million dollars to keep videos from reaching his conservative family.
The pattern was consistent: intelligent, successful men isolated and manipulated by women who seemed too good to be true. Men who made one mistake—meeting for a drink, accepting an invitation to a hotel room—and paid for it with their reputations and fortunes.
By the end of the week, bail was denied for all defendants. The evidence was too strong, the flight risk too high. Colette Valentine would await trial in Cook County Jail.
Her lawyer tried one last desperate move, claiming Tristan had coerced her, that she was a victim of domestic abuse who had been forced into criminal activity. It was a Hail Mary that fell flat when prosecutors presented recordings of Colette bragging about her earnings and planning new targets with obvious enthusiasm.
The trial date was set for three months away, though everyone knew it would end in a plea deal. The evidence was insurmountable.
Three months later, Tristan stood in the living room of his townhouse—legally his now, since it had been purchased with Colette’s criminal proceeds and the court had awarded it to him in the divorce settlement. Everything of hers was gone. He had donated her clothes, destroyed her paperwork, erased every trace of her existence from his home.
The plea deal had come through yesterday. Colette Valentine would serve twenty-five years in federal prison, with no possibility of parole for fifteen. Lenore Bridges got eighteen years. Carrie Carroll got twenty-two. Quentin Solomon turned state’s witness and got twelve years. Four other members of the syndicate received sentences ranging from eight to fifteen years.
It was over.
Devin knocked on the open door, carrying a six-pack of beer. “Thought you could use some company.”
They sat on the back deck as the autumn sun faded, drinking in comfortable silence.
“How are you doing?” Devin finally asked.
Tristan considered the question. Three months ago, his world had imploded. He had learned that his marriage was a lie, that he had been a pawn in a criminal enterprise, that the woman he loved had never existed—only a calculating predator wearing her face. But he had also learned he was stronger than he thought. That he could face horror and betrayal and keep moving forward. That he could fight back and win.
“I’m doing okay,” he said honestly. “Better than okay, actually. For the first time in years, I feel like I can breathe.”
“Any regrets? About taking her down?”
“No. She chose her path. I just made sure she faced consequences.” Tristan took a long drink. “But I do regret not seeing it sooner. All those late nights, the expensive gifts, the vague explanations about work… I ignored the signs because I wanted to believe in us.”
“That’s not a character flaw, man. That’s called being a decent human being. You trusted your wife. That’s what you’re supposed to do in a marriage. A real marriage, not whatever we had.”
They watched the sun set over the Chicago skyline. Tristan’s phone buzzed. A text from Detective Morales.
Colette’s been transferred to federal facility. It’s really over now. Thank you again for everything you did.
He didn’t respond. There was nothing left to say.
“You know what’s funny?” Tristan said suddenly. “She called me self-righteous once. Said I thought I was better than her because I save lives for a living instead of making ‘real money.’ And maybe I am self-righteous. But I’d rather be self-righteous than be like her. I’d rather struggle to pay bills than destroy people for profit. I’d rather be alone than be with someone who sees other humans as targets.”
“You won’t be alone forever,” Devin said quietly. “You’re a good man, Tris. You’ll find someone real.”
“Maybe. Eventually.” But right now, Tristan stood looking out at the city he protected as a paramedic—and, in a different way, had helped protect by taking down the Crown Syndicate. “Right now, I’m okay with just being myself. No lies. No games. Just me. That’s more than enough.”
The next day, Tristan returned to work. His first call was a cardiac emergency in River North—an elderly woman experiencing chest pains. He and his new partner—Devin had gotten promoted to supervisor—arrived within minutes, stabilized her, and transported her to Northwestern Memorial.
In the ER waiting room, the woman’s granddaughter thanked him with tears in her eyes. “You saved her life.”
Simple words. Honest words. The kind of truth Colette had never known.
As Tristan walked back to his ambulance, he felt lighter than he had in months. The weight of betrayal and lies was finally lifting. He had been tested in ways he had never imagined, had faced darkness in his own home, and had emerged on the other side intact.
Colette had thought she was smarter than everyone. That her schemes were foolproof. That she would never face consequences. She had underestimated the very man she had used as a shield—the “self-righteous” paramedic who saved lives and apparently had more spine than she had ever suspected. In the end, she had lost everything: her freedom, her money, her reputation, and the cover of a respectable marriage that had made her crimes possible. She would spend the next fifteen to twenty-five years in a cell, knowing that her husband, the man she had considered beneath her, had orchestrated her downfall.
Tristan Valentine climbed into his ambulance and picked up the radio.
“Available for next call.”
His revenge was complete. Not through violence or elaborate schemes, but through something simpler and more devastating: the truth. He had exposed who she really was, let the justice system do its work, and walked away clean while she rotted in federal prison. Sometimes, the best revenge was just making sure the bad guys finally faced consequences.
And as Chicago’s skyline gleamed in the afternoon sun, Tristan Valentine drove toward his next call, toward his next patient, toward a future where he could finally be himself—without lies, without betrayal, without the weight of loving someone who had never existed. He was free. And that was the sweetest victory of all.