I was eight months pregnant, standing in the middle of the room, when my ex-husband laughed and said, “You should never have come.”

Three weeks later, I sat in a quiet, sun-drenched nursery in a house that Derek never knew about—a house Elias had purchased for me months ago while he was building the case.

I looked down at my daughter, Maya, sleeping peacefully in my arms. She would never know the fear I felt in that marble mansion. She would never know a man who thought power was found in tearing others down.

My brother leaned against the doorframe, watching us. “You okay, P?”

I looked at the simple wooden floors and the light streaming through the windows. It wasn’t a mansion, and it didn’t have my name in neon lights downtown. It was better.

“I’m more than okay,” I said, smiling. “I’m free.”