I held Alice's body, sitting on the cold floor.

The blood from her chest had soaked my clothes red, and her body was going cold, inch by inch.

Wind blew in from the back courtyard, bone-cutting and raw, but I couldn't feel any of it.

It was as if a piece of my heart had been carved out alive. The pain was so sharp I couldn't breathe.

Miles Winfield. Stella Fox.

You killed my child. Now you've killed my sister.

This blood debt—I will make you repay it a thousand times over.

I sat in the pool of blood. My tears had run dry. All that remained behind my eyes was a dead, hollow hatred.

That hatred coiled like a vine around my heart, and in the depths of that agony, it gave birth to something else: the resolve to drag them down with me if I had to.

Everything around me blurred. Only two things stayed sharp—Alice's cold body, and the indifferent silhouette of Miles walking away. They flickered before my eyes, over and over.

I knew then. The Martha Pruitt who had loved Miles Winfield with her whole heart was dead.

What survived was nothing but a vengeful ghost with a single purpose.

I raised my hand slowly, wiped the blood from my face, and forced words through clenched teeth, each one cold as ice:

"Follow the original plan. No—activate the final protocol."

"Every piece of evidence. Submit it all. Miles Winfield, Stella Fox, the Winfield Group. Leave nothing standing."

Before this, I'd held back for the sake of seven years together.

Even after I'd uncovered every last conspiracy, I'd still left them one final thread of mercy.

All I'd wanted was to take back what was mine and watch their reputations crumble. That would have been enough.

But Alice's death ground my last shred of softness to dust.

The mercy I'd spared them had become the very reason I would make them pay with everything they had.

From that day on, I changed.

No more endurance. No more pretending. The madness and the hatred in my eyes were beyond hiding now.

I stayed at the Pruitt estate. I kept vigil at Alice's grave. I gathered every last piece of evidence, and I waited for the final reckoning with Miles and Stella.

The funeral dirge hadn't even ended when a court summons was thrust into my hands, the paper blindingly white.

I pinched the thin sheet between my fingers until my knuckles went pale. But my lips curved slowly into a smile—bleak and razor-edged.

Fine.

Old debts and new. We'd settle them all at once.

Miles had sued me on charges of embezzlement and assault. He'd flipped the entire story, accusing me of orchestrating Alice's death, claiming I'd planned the whole thing.

The day the trial opened, every seat in the courtroom was taken.

Miles and Stella sat at the plaintiff's table, impeccably dressed, their expressions dripping with arrogance.

Chloe sat beside Stella, her small hand clasped in the woman's grip. She looked timid, but her eyes held nothing for me but distance.

Their attorney spoke first, piling every charge onto my shoulders, each sentence more vicious than the last:

"The defendant, Martha Pruitt, harboring resentment over her failed marriage, illegally transferred Pruitt Group assets. Consumed by jealousy toward the plaintiff Stella Fox, she committed deliberate assault, and went so far as to murder her own sister and frame others. Her conduct is egregious. We request the harshest penalty."

Right on cue, Stella raised a hand to dab at her tears. Her voice came out soft and wounded:

"Your Honor, Miles and I are truly in love. But Martha could never accept me. She didn't just hit me—she tried to kill me. That knife wound was self-defense. She's capable of hurting her own sister. What wouldn't she do?"

As she spoke, she gave Chloe's hand a gentle squeeze.

Chloe lifted her small face on command, her high, clear voice ringing through the courtroom:

"Your Honor, she's a bad mommy. She was mean to Aunt Stella and she always yelled at me. She's a bad person!"

The child's voice was innocent, but every word pierced like a needle.

Miles picked up seamlessly, his tone frigid:

"Martha Pruitt is mentally unstable. She showed signs of psychological deterioration throughout our marriage. She can't even care for a child properly. The Pruitt Group would be destroyed in her hands. I'm requesting the court grant me interim management authority."

They played off each other perfectly, even using Chloe as a prop, casting themselves as the victims.

And me? I became the unforgivable monster.

My lawyer fought tooth and nail, presenting evidence piece by piece, but the other side dismantled every argument. They'd bought off witnesses, fabricated proof, and sewn every last stitch into a seamless lie.

The judge looked at me, her voice grave. "Defendant Martha Pruitt, are the plaintiff's claims true? Do you have any objections?"

I lifted my gaze toward the plaintiff's bench.

A cold smile curved my lips. I didn't answer. I just stared at them.

Stella squirmed under my gaze and shrank behind Miles, whispering, "Your Honor, look at her. That look on her face proves she's guilty!"

Miles frowned. "Your Honor, she has nothing to say because the facts speak for themselves!"

That was when the courtroom doors swung open.

A clear, bright child's voice shattered the silence. "That's not true! She's lying!"

Every head turned toward the entrance.

A little girl walked in, her hand clasped in a middle-aged man's.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Her face bore a startling resemblance to mine, like a mirror reflecting me as a child. The man beside her looked familiar too, but my mind spun and couldn't place him.

Miles's expression changed the instant he heard her voice. Stella went rigid, a flash of panic darting through her eyes.

"Who are you? Who let you in here?" Miles barked, his voice sharp enough to cut, trying to mask the fear bleeding through.

The little girl pulled free of the man's hand and walked to the center of the courtroom. She looked up at the judge.

"Ma'am, my name is Sylvia Pruitt. I'm here to testify. They're lying!"

"You're making things up!" Stella screamed, her voice cracking with hysteria. "She's a child! Who's going to believe a word she says?"

"My words count," the little girl said. "And so does this."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small USB drive, holding it up to the judge.

"On here, there are recordings of you talking with the bad man, proof that you bribed a nurse to swap the babies, and a recording of you putting drugs in my mom's medicine. All of it is real!"

A bailiff took the drive and played it for the court.

The first thing that appeared was a high-definition video. On screen, two figures held each other close.

"Once I get my hands on all the Pruitt assets, I'll divorce Martha immediately. Leave her with nothing."

"Mm. It was always supposed to be ours."

Then came the transfer records, the conversations about swapping the babies, the audio of the poisoning, the conspiracy to strip the Pruitt empire, the plot to kill Alice. And then, in unflinching clarity, footage of Stella driving a blade into Alice's chest.

Every piece of evidence detonated like a bomb in that courtroom.

The proof was overwhelming. Irrefutable. Absolute.

I stared at it all, then at the little girl whose eyes looked so much like mine, and my vision blurred.

Seven years.

I had waited seven years for her.

And she was finally here.

The little girl turned around. She looked at me, then walked toward me, one small step at a time.

She tilted her face up, tears pooling in her eyes but refusing to fall. Her voice was soft and steady, ringing through the silent courtroom with perfect clarity.

"Mom."