The trial was set for six months out.
But I wouldn’t be there.
Because three weeks after Richard’s arrest, I sold the Malibu estate and left California.
I bought a house in Vermont. A farmhouse, actually, on twenty acres of land. Quiet. Remote. Safe.
Katherine Chen handled the sale of the estate, the restructuring of my company, the transfer of assets.
“You don’t have to run,” she said when I called to finalize the move. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m not running,” I replied. “I’m choosing where I want to raise my daughter.”
And I meant it.
Because as I settled into the farmhouse, preparing the nursery, painting walls a soft yellow, I realized something.
For the first time in my life, I was making decisions based on what I wanted.
Not what my father’s legacy demanded.
Not what my husband expected.
Not what the business world required.
Just me.
And my daughter.
I gave birth on a cold January morning, snow falling outside the hospital window.
Katherine flew in to be there. Marcus stood guard outside the room, even though there was no more threat.
And when the nurse placed my daughter in my arms, tiny and perfect and alive, I understood something I hadn’t before.
This was why I’d survived.
Not for revenge.
Not for justice.
For her.
“Hello, Sophie,” I whispered, pressing my lips to her forehead.
Sophie. Light. Hope.
She opened her eyes and looked at me.
And for the first time in months, I smiled.
Really smiled.
The trial began in March.
I didn’t attend, but Katherine kept me updated.
Richard had tried to plead insanity. It hadn’t worked. The recordings of his conversations—the cold, calculated planning—made it clear he’d known exactly what he was doing.
