At the Wedding Altar, the Groom Tightened His Grip on My Hand and Whispered, "From This Moment, You Belong To Me. Remember Your Place

Six months after the trial.

Chicago in the spring was a city reborn. The ice on Lake Michigan had completely thawed, giving way to bright blue waters reflecting the clear skies above.

I stood in the center of a spacious, light-filled office suite on the twentieth floor of the historic Wrigley Building on Michigan Avenue.

The wide floor-to-ceiling windows offered an unobstructed view of the Chicago River below. Workers were currently installing a frosted glass sign on the main entrance door:

MERCER & VANCE FORENSIC FINANCIAL CONSULTING

"What do you think?" Clara Vance asked, stepping up beside me carrying two champagne flutes.

"It's perfect, Clara," I said, taking a glass and admiring the sleek, modern aesthetic of our new corporate headquarters.

After the bankruptcy liquidation of Duncan Apex Holdings was completed under court supervision, Eleanor Vance had been awarded full restitution of her father's estate—amounting to over one hundred and twenty million dollars in recovered assets.

In gratitude for helping her reclaim her life, Eleanor had provided the seed capital for Clara Vance and me to launch an independent forensic accounting firm dedicated exclusively to helping victims of corporate fraud, financial abuse, and domestic exploitation.

Our firm had already taken on eight high-profile cases, assisting federal agencies and private individuals in uncovering concealed assets and exposing financial criminals who thought they were too powerful to be caught.

The front door opened, and Eleanor Vance walked in, carrying a large bouquet of fresh white lilies and yellow roses.

"Happy Grand Opening!" Eleanor cheered, setting the flowers on the reception desk with a warm, beaming smile.

She looked ten years younger. The lines of fear and exhaustion that had marked her face when I first met her in Iowa were gone, replaced by a calm, confident grace. She had recently taken over the leadership of the Thomas Duncan Charitable Foundation, directing millions of dollars into domestic violence shelters and legal aid organizations across the Midwest.

"You look wonderful, Eleanor," I said, coming over to give her a warm hug.

"I feel wonderful, Clara," Eleanor replied, looking around the bustling office where three junior accountants were already busy reviewing financial files. "I just came from the bank. The final transfer for the Lake Forest property went through."

"What are you going to do with Duncan Manor?" Clara Vance asked, leaning against the reception desk.

"We start demolition next Monday," Eleanor announced proudly.

I raised an eyebrow in pleasant surprise. "Demolition? You're tearing it down?"

"Every brick," Eleanor said with absolute conviction. "That house was built on greed, violence, and secrets. I'm tearing the mansion down to the ground and turning the twelve acres into a public park and crisis recovery center named in honor of my father."

"That's incredible, Eleanor," I said, raising my champagne glass toward her. "To new beginnings."

"To new beginnings," Eleanor and Clara toasted together.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a notification from the Federal Bureau of Prisons inmate locator system—a system I had signed up for to receive automatic updates regarding Jonathan and Rosalind.

NOTIFICATION: Inmate #88492-014 (Duncan, Jonathan T.) has been successfully transferred to ADX Florence Federal Correctional Institution, Colorado. Security Level: Maximum.

NOTIFICATION: Inmate #88493-014 (Duncan, Rosalind M.) has been successfully assigned to Federal Correctional Institution, Pekin, Illinois. Sentence Commenced.

I locked the phone screen and slipped it back into my pocket without feeling a single ripple of anxiety.

They were behind walls of concrete and iron, surrounded by the cold reality of their own actions. They were no longer a part of my story. They were merely a closed chapter in a book I had finished reading.