Part 2: My sister smashed a $4,500 designer bag into my face and my family cheered—until four military trucks pulled into their driveway three days later.

Two years after the trial.

I was eight months pregnant with our first child—a daughter we had already decided to name Helen, after my grandmother.

I sat in the passenger seat of Thorne’s truck as we pulled into the parking lot of the Sanford Municipal Cemetery.

It was late autumn. The leaves were orange and bright red, crunching under the tires.

Thorne turned off the engine and looked at me gently. "You sure you want to do this?"

"I'm sure," I said.

Three weeks ago, Alaric Vance had suffered a massive stroke in his small apartment in Sanford. He had died forty-eight hours later in a state charity ward.

Morwenna had been unable to pay for a private funeral service. The state had handled the burial in a modest, unmarked section of the county cemetery.

We stepped out of the truck.

I wore a dark green coat wrapped around my swollen belly, my hand held securely in Thorne’s strong grip.

We walked down the long row of simple stone markers until we found the newly turned dirt near the edge of the pine woods.

Standing beside the small metal marker was a solitary figure in a faded coat.

Morwenna.

She looked small. Shrinkage had caught her—she seemed to have lost four inches in height, her shoulders hunched against the cold wind. Her hair was completely white now. Her hands, once pristine and covered in rings, were raw and red from her work at the dry cleaner.

She turned when she heard our footsteps.

When she saw me—saw my belly, saw my glowing skin, saw the warm coat and the loving man standing beside me—she froze.

Her lips trembled.

"Vesper," she whispered.

I didn't say anything. I stood ten feet away, looking down at the dirt covering my father's grave.

"He... he asked for you," Morwenna stammered, tears forming in her pale, watery eyes. "Before he went into the coma... he called your name."

"I know," I said softly.

"He was sorry, Vesper," Morwenna wept, taking a step toward me. "He was so sorry for what we did to you... he knew he ruined everything..."

I looked at my mother.

The anger that had sustained me through the police reports, the trials, and the foreclosures was completely gone. In its place was a deep, quiet sadness for two people who had destroyed their own souls for absolute garbage.

"I didn't come here to hate him, Mom," I said cleanly.

Morwenna stopped. "Then... why did you come?"

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a single white lily. I walked forward, knelt down with Thorne’s assistance, and laid the flower gently on the fresh earth.

I stood up and looked at Morwenna.

"I came to say goodbye," I said. "To the past."

I pulled an envelope from my coat and handed it to her.

Inside was a deed to a small, two-bedroom cottage in a quiet senior community near Greensboro, along with a monthly annuity managed by my foundation that would cover her food, utility, and medical expenses for the rest of her life.

Morwenna opened the envelope with trembling fingers. She read the documents, her mouth falling open in disbelief.

"You... you bought me a house?" she choked out, looking up at me with tears streaming down her face. "After... after everything I said to you? After I let Cressida hurt you?"

"I didn't do it for you," I said gently, touching my stomach. "I did it for her."

I looked down at my pregnant belly.

"I don't want my daughter to grow up in a world where hatred is passed down from generation to generation," I said. "You will have a safe place to live. Your bills will be paid. But you will never meet her. You will never be a part of her life."

Morwenna clutched the paper to her chest, weeping softly, nodding her head repeatedly. "I understand... I understand... thank you, Vesper... thank you..."

I turned back to Thorne.

He wrapped his coat around my shoulders, pulled me close, and walked me back to the truck.