Chapter 6 - Shadows in the Conservatory
Six months after Daria’s arrest, a package arrived at our estate via secure federal courier.
It was from the United States Attorney’s Office. Inside was a thick folder containing the final asset inventory of Daria’s seized properties, along with a personal letter from the federal prosecutor handling the trial.
I sat in my home library, reading the letter under the soft glow of a desk lamp.
‘Samuel,’ the prosecutor wrote. ‘Daria’s defense counsel has formally submitted a plea bargain request. In exchange for avoiding a public trial, she is willing to plead guilty to all charges and forfeit all remaining international claims, on one condition: she wants a ten-minute private meeting with you before she is transferred to the federal penitentiary in Danbury.’
I stared at the letter for a long time.
My first instinct was to tear the paper to pieces. The thought of ever looking at my mother’s face again filled me with deep disgust. She had stolen two precious years of my daughter's childhood; she deserved no closure, no mercy, and no satisfaction.
Just then, the library door pushed open softly.
Penelope walked in carrying two mugs of hot cocoa topped with marshmallows. She was wearing an oversized sweater, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail, looking healthier and happier than she had in years.
“Dad?” she asked, setting a mug on my desk. “What’s that?”
I quickly turned the letter face down. “Just some boring legal paperwork from the lawyers, sweet pea.”
Penelope sat in the chair across from me, taking a slow sip of her cocoa. She looked at my face, her sharp eyes picking up on my tense shoulders.
“Is it about Grandma?” she asked quietly.
I hesitated, refusing to lie to her ever again. “Yes,” I admitted. “She wants to see me before she goes to prison.”
Penelope was silent for a moment, staring into her mug.
“Do you want to see her?” she asked.
“No,” I answered honestly. “I never want to speak to her again.”
Penelope reached across the desk and touched my hand. “If you go, Dad, it’s not for her. It’s for us. So she knows she can’t hurt us anymore.”
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I looked into my daughter's eyes, stunned by her wisdom. She wasn't just surviving anymore—she was healing, growing stronger than the woman who had tried to break her.
“Okay,” I said softly, squeezing her little hand. “I’ll go.”
