A recorded prison conversation played: Margaret coordinating supply disruption in exchange for offshore transfers.
Victor’s champagne glass shattered against marble when officers entered.
Two days later, I visited Margaret in prison.
“You look tired,” I told her through the glass.
She spat at me.
“You’re being transferred,” I continued calmly. “Solitary. No communications.”
“You can’t!”
“I already have.”
Ten years have passed.
Julian and Eleanor are bright, fierce, compassionate. Nathaniel died in prison during a gambling dispute. Margaret’s mind deteriorated into dementia. Chloe vanished into obscurity.
I never remarried. I built a foundation for women escaping domestic violence. I rebuilt my company with transparency and strength.
Some nights I still hear the monitor.
Beep… beep… beep.
But it no longer signals death.
It reminds me of rebirth.
This house in Weston is warm now. Full of laughter. Full of light.
And entirely mine.
