The first sound that reached me was the slow creak of the rope above Isabella's head. The second was Jasper's laughter, cold and effortless, as if watching my sister suffer was the best entertainment money could buy

By noon the following day, the story had completely consumed every local and national news outlet.

The headline on every major broadcast read: BLACKWOOD DYNASTY COLLAPSES: BOLD RESCUE EXPOSES MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR CRIMINAL NETWORK.

Video clips from my button-cam—edited carefully to hide tactical team tactics while showing Jasper’s unambiguous guilt—played on a continuous loop across television screens nationwide. The image of Jasper standing over a tied, bruised Isabella while boastfully claiming “She belongs to me” sparked an overwhelming public outrage that no amount of public relations money could contain.

In front of the federal courthouse downtown, hundreds of protesters gathered holding signs demanding maximum sentencing for Jasper and his co-conspirators.

Inside the courthouse, Jasper Blackwood stood before a federal judge wearing an orange jumpsuit and heavy wrist restraints. His manicured hair was mess, his eyes were sunken, and his high-priced defense attorney looked as if he hadn't slept in thirty-six hours.

I sat in the front row of the gallery wearing a clean black suit, sitting beside my sister.

Isabella wore a high-collared cream sweater that carefully hid the bruises on her neck, though her posture was straight, proud, and unwavering. For the first time in two years, she wasn't hiding behind anyone.

Jasper looked over his shoulder toward the gallery, his eyes landing on us.

When he saw Isabella sitting beside me—healthy, protected, and surrounded by six Aegis security details—his jaw twitched with bitter hatred.

His attorney leaned into the microphone. “Your Honor, my client maintains his absolute innocence regarding the alleged financial improprieties. Furthermore, we argue that the video footage presented by the prosecution was obtained through an illegal, unauthorized breach of private property by a private armed militia—”

The judge slammed her gavel down so hard the microphone feedback whined through the courtroom speakers.

“Counsel, sit down,” Judge Harrison ordered, her eyes burning with cold fury as she glared down at Jasper. “I have reviewed the unredacted tactical stream, the medical affidavits regarding Mrs. Blackwood's severe physical injuries, and the federal bank logs provided by the Department of Justice. Your client was caught red-handed attempting to murder his spouse to cover up massive systemic fraud.”

“Your Honor, we request bail set at—”

“Bail is denied,” the judge cut him off instantly. “Mr. Blackwood represents an extreme flight risk and an immediate danger to society. He will remain in federal custody pending trial.”

The gallery erupted into quiet whispers and frantic note-taking by reporters.

Jasper’s face drained of all color. He spun around toward his attorney, grabbing the man’s arm frantically. “Do something! Call my father! Call the Mayor!”

“Your father was arrested at the airport six hours ago, Jasper,” I spoke up quietly from the front row, my voice carrying clearly through the silent courtroom. “There is no one left to call.”

Jasper stared at me, his lip quivering, before two federal marshals grabbed his arms and dragged him backward through the holding door, his boots dragging uselessly along the polished wood floor.

Isabella took a long, deep breath beside me, letting out a breath she felt like she had been holding for two years.

She turned to me, resting her hand on my arm.

“Is it really over, Caleb?”