The kitchen was so quiet that the hum of the refrigerator sounded like a low-frequency warning alarm.

Two months later, the spring thaw was finally turning the New England landscape a brilliant, vibrant green.

Inside the federal courtroom in downtown Boston, the final chapter of the Armand-Frost legal saga was drawing to a close.

Abigail sat in the gallery, holding two-month-old Noah—now sleeping soundly in a soft gray carrier against her chest—while Rowan stood beside Marcus Vance at the plaintiff’s table.

Judge Evelyn Vance sat on the bench, reviewing the final federal sentencing memorandum for Celeste Armand.

The trial had been swift and devastating. With the master server logs, the forged medical orders, the wire transfer receipts to Vail Ventures, and the testimonies of Lena and the household staff, Celeste’s defense had completely collapsed within three days of jury selection.

“Celeste Armand,” Judge Vance said, her voice echoing with solemn authority through the sunlit courtroom. “You have been found guilty on twelve counts of wire fraud, three counts of identity theft, corporate espionage, and malicious endangerment of a vulnerable beneficiary under your care.”

Celeste stood at the defense table. The emerald velvet dresses and designer suits were entirely gone, replaced by the orange canvas jumpsuit of the federal holding facility. Her hair was unstyled, her face drawn and hollowed out by months of unrelenting stress and isolation. She looked older, smaller, and utterly defeated.

“The prosecution has recommended the maximum sentence under federal guidelines,” Judge Vance continued, adjusting her glasses. “Given the calculated, predatory nature of your crimes—specifically your attempts to exploit family trust structures and endanger the health of an unborn child for personal financial gain—I see no reason for leniency.”

She struck her gavel once.

“I sentence you to fourteen years in a federal penitentiary without the possibility of parole for the first eight years. Furthermore, all remaining personal assets, properties, and accounts held under your name or subsidiary LLCs are hereby permanently seized to satisfy restitution orders owed to the Armand Foundation and Abigail Armand.”

The sharp crack of the gavel reverberated through the silent courtroom.

Celeste didn't cry. She didn't scream. She simply stared straight ahead at the polished mahogany wall, the reality of her self-constructed prison finally sinking in. Two federal marshals stepped forward, placed their hands gently on her shoulders, and led her away through the side door, her footsteps echoing hollowly against the tile floor until the heavy metal door clicked shut.

Abigail watched her go, feeling no malice, no triumph—only a quiet, profound sense of closure.

Rowan walked back from the table, sliding his arm around Abigail’s waist and looking down at baby Noah, who stirred softly in his sleep, letting out a tiny, contented sigh.