The CEO Hit My Car And Mocked Me, Now My Injury Attorney Owns His Mansion

The power I felt on the phone evaporated the moment I walked into the deposition room. The air conditioning was frigid, raising goosebumps on my arms. Preston sat across the long table, looking hollowed out but still dangerous. This was the result of weeks of deposition preparation.

Vance didn't yell. He didn't pace. He simply placed a stack of photos on the table. My car. My injuries. Chloe's affidavit.

"Mr. Sterling," Vance began, "did you or did you not consume narcotics prior to operating your vehicle?"

Preston sneered, adjusting his cufflinks. "I refuse to answer based on the..."

"Perjury is a felony, Preston," Vance interrupted softly. "And we have the toxicology report from your hair follicle test taken at the airport."

The silence stretched, thin and brittle. Preston's eyes darted around the room, realizing the civil suit timeline was accelerating beyond his control.

"She's a waitress!" Preston suddenly screamed, slamming his fist down. He pointed a shaking finger at me. "She's a nobody! Why are we listening to this trash? I hit a piece of junk car, so what? I did her a favor!"

The court reporter typed furiously. Vance smiled, a cold, predatory baring of teeth.

"Thank you for that admission of malice," Vance said. "With that outburst, we have enough for a criminal referral, not just civil. You just talked your way into a potential prison sentence, Mr. Sterling."

Preston froze. Theories of perjury penalty and ego had just collided, and he was the wreckage.