For four years, I imagined the same homecoming. Grace would hear my suitcase hit the porch. She would open the front door. Then she would run into my arms before I had the chance to say her name.

Leaving Sam and Leo to guard the mansion and prevent Eleanor or Vanessa from removing a single piece of paper or piece of jewelry, I drove straight to the St. Regis Hotel in downtown Chicago.

The rain had started to fall, heavy and grey against the windshield, mimicking the dark storm raging inside my mind.

When I reached the penthouse suite on the thirty-second floor, Marcus was standing outside the door.

"How is she?" I asked, stripping off my wet coat.

"The doctor just left, Daniel," Marcus said softly, his voice full of solemn concern. "She’s severely malnourished. Her red blood cell count is dangerously low, and she has signs of long-term psychological trauma. The doctor gave her a vitamin IV drip and a mild sedative. She’s awake, but she’s... distant."

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Thanks, Marcus. Order dinner up here. The best steak, soups, fruits, whatever they have. Keep guards at the elevator."

I stepped softly into the dimly lit master bedroom.

The room was warm, filled with the soft scent of fresh roses and clean linen. Grace was sitting in the middle of a massive king-sized bed, wrapped in a plush white bathrobe that engulfed her tiny frame. Her bare feet were tucked under her, and her eyes were fixed on the panoramic glass window overlooking the rainy city lights.

She looked so fragile—like a ghost floating in a luxury room.

"Grace?" I called softly.

She turned her head slowly. When her green eyes locked onto mine, a sudden, desperate warmth flickered in their depths.

"Daniel," she whispered.

I walked over, kicking off my boots, and climbed onto the bed beside her. I pulled her carefully into my lap, wrapping my arms around her waist, tucking her head under my chin. She didn't weigh more than ninety pounds.

"I'm sorry," I choked out, my voice breaking as the tears I had been holding back for hours finally overflowed. "I'm so sorry, Grace. I brought them into our life. I trusted them. I left you with monsters."

Grace buried her face against my neck, her small hands gripping my shirt with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity.

"I thought you forgot about me," she sobbed quietly, her hot tears soaking into my collar. "Every day, Eleanor would bring down printouts... fake emails... showing you at parties in Dubai, with beautiful women. She said you laughed when she told you I was crying."

"It was all lies, baby," I stroked her short, cropped hair, my heart tearing into a thousand pieces. "Every single word was a lie. I didn't party. I worked fourteen hours a day, saved every dime, and dreamed about coming home to build a family with you. I sent nine thousand dollars a month. They stole it all."

Grace lifted her head, looking at me with wide, confused eyes. "Nine thousand... a month?"

"Yes," I said, wiping a tear from her cheek with my thumb. "Over four hundred thousand dollars in four years. Plus extra lump sums for 'emergencies' that never existed."

Grace stared at me in horror. "She... she used to make me beg for twenty dollars to buy feminine products, Daniel. She made me clean Vanessa’s apartment on weekends just to get money for bread."

The sheer brutality of what my mother and sister had done hit me with fresh, agonizing force. They hadn't just stolen money; they had systematically dismantled my wife's humanity for sport. They had starved her, isolated her, and degraded her to satisfy their own twisted vanity.

"They're going to pay for every second of it," I promised her, my voice turning into hard steel. "Every single cent they took, every tear you cried, every night you slept on that cold floor... I am going to make them bleed for it legally, financially, and socially."

Grace rested her cheek back against my chest, her breathing finally slowing down as the sedative began to take hold.