The heavy oak door was only three paces away, but with every inch I moved, the fresh wound on my abdomen pulled like hot wire.

Two weeks after the courtroom ruling, the sun was shining brightly over my childhood home in a quiet lakeside town in Michigan.

After leaving the temporary safe house, I hadn't returned to the Chicago residence where the assault had taken place. Instead, with the help of Moretti Maritime’s logistics team and my own newly unfrozen personal accounts, I had packed up my belongings, sold the suburban house, and moved back to the place where I had grown up—surrounded by old maple trees and people who loved me before I ever knew what cancer or cruelty looked like.

I sat on the screened-in back porch, wrapped in a comfortable quilt, watching the gentle ripples of the lake. My incision was healing properly now, the pink scar fading into a thin, silver line.

A gentle knock sounded on the screen door. My older sister, Rachel, stepped onto the porch carrying a tray with a steaming pot of herbal tea and two ceramic mugs.

“Mail’s here,” Rachel said with a smile, setting the tray on the small wicker table. She handed me a heavy, formal envelope bearing the official letterhead of the District Attorney’s office.

I opened it carefully. Inside was a notification that David had formally been indicted on three counts of felony wire fraud, perjury, and domestic battery, with a bail hearing scheduled for next week. He was currently sitting in the county jail, unable to post bond because all his offshore accounts had been frozen by federal regulators.

“Good,” Rachel said, sitting across from me. “Let him see what it feels like to have no control over his life.”

I folded the letter and set it aside, feeling a profound sense of lightness in my chest. For so long, my entire existence had been defined by what was happening to me—the cancer diagnosis, the surgeries, the abuse, the constant, suffocating fear of the next blow.

For the first time in years, my life belonged entirely to me.

My phone buzzed on the table. It was a text message from an unknown number, though I recognized the format immediately.

“Medical follow-up scheduled with Dr. Lin for Tuesday. Security detail is confirmed for the trip. How’s the lake air?”

It was from Elena. Over the past couple of weeks, we had struck up an unexpected friendship. She and Adrian had checked in on my recovery almost daily, ensuring that the legal proceedings were handled with absolute finality.