Sophie joined her. “Big day tomorrow. Three new cases.”
“Good.”
“You okay?”
“More than okay.” Lucia smiled. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Noah’s drawing—the one he’d brought her that first terrible day—hung framed in her office. Two stick figures holding hands.
The lie that nearly destroyed her had led to something bigger. Justice. Purpose. Peace.
She walked home through the city that had once whispered about her, head high, name cleared, soul intact.
The maid who became a symbol. The victim who became a voice. The woman who turned her pain into power.
Eleanor’s cruelty had failed. Truth had won. And Lucia Morales—quiet, strong, unbreakable—had survived.
