The courtroom was a cathedral of silence.
Reporters filled the gallery. Cameras flashed outside the frosted windows. The air was thick with tension—pain, betrayal, and a twisted thirst for justice.
At the center of it all sat Catherine Reyes, her once-vibrant face pale under the harsh courtroom lights. Her wrists were cuffed. Her long black hair was tied neatly, as if neatness could wash away the blood on her hands.
She didn't cry.
Not when the charges were read.
Not when the jury declared her guilty.
And not now—when Judge Helena Warren, with piercing eyes and a voice like thunder, was about to deliver her fate.
"This court," Judge Warren began, "having heard the evidence, reviewed the testimonies, and considered the deliberate, premeditated nature of your crimes, hereby sentences you, Catherine Reyes, to forty years in prison for the murder of Gideon Monroe, tampering with medical records, and the conspiracy to commit fraud against the Monroe estate."
Gasps echoed through the room.
Catherine didn't blink.
She just stared ahead. Unmoving. Unyielding.
Next to her, the co-defendant, Dr. Lionel Greaves—the once-respected Monroe family physician—lowered his head as the judge turned to him.
"You, Dr. Greaves, were entrusted with the care of Gideon Monroe. Instead, you became complicit in his death by providing Ms. Reyes with a toxic compound and falsifying his medical reports. For this, you are sentenced to twenty years in federal prison."
Whispers rippled across the courtroom like a tidal wave.
From the front row, Valeria Monroe sat in black. Cold, composed, almost statuesque. Only her clenched fists gave away the storm inside her.
Beside her sat her daughter, Ella Monroe, now sixteen. Her face was blank, but her eyes—they were haunted.
She had seen too much. She had kept too much. For three long years.
Now it was all out.
The affair.
The betrayal.
The poison.
The death of the man she once called "Daddy."
And the two little boys—half-brothers born from the mistress who destroyed everything.
The bailiff moved to lead Catherine away, but she turned—suddenly, fiercely—locking eyes with Valeria.
"I loved him," she said, voice sharp. "And he loved me."
Valeria didn't flinch.
Catherine's lips curled into something cruel. "He was mine long before he died. He wanted to leave you. He told me so every night—"
"Enough," Judge Warren snapped. "Remove her from this courtroom."
Catherine laughed as they dragged her away.
A long, mad, hollow sound.
The courtroom emptied slowly, like the last breath of a storm. Reporters were already scrambling for interviews, camera crews sprinting toward the exit like vultures toward a fresh carcass.
Valeria remained seated.
She didn't move. Didn't speak. Her long black coat lay smooth against the bench, her silk gloves tight around fingers that trembled underneath. For three years she had waited—no, suffered—for this day. But now that it had arrived, it didn't feel like justice. It felt hollow. It felt like ashes.
Ella stood beside her, quiet.
"Mom?" she finally said, her voice a whisper.
Valeria blinked, as if waking from a trance. She turned slowly to face her daughter, her only child, the one constant in a world that had been slowly unraveling since Gideon's death.
"We're going home," Valeria said. "Now."
But when they stepped outside, home felt far away.
The steps of the courthouse were swarming with flashing bulbs and shouted questions.
"Mrs. Monroe, do you believe Catherine acted alone?"
"Is it true your husband had two sons with his mistress?"
"Was this a crime of passion or revenge?"
Valeria moved like glass through it all—unshattered, untouchable.
Ella followed closely, her face buried in the crook of her mother's coat.
But deep inside her mind, memories uncoiled.
---
Three Years Ago
The scent of warm cinnamon rolls had filled the Monroe estate that Sunday morning.
Ella had woken early, eager to share a painting she'd made of her parents. A family portrait—stick figures with too many hearts and a gold crown on her father's head.
She remembered the sound first. Laughter. Then voices. Muffled but intense.
The kitchen had been empty, so she climbed the stairs, calling softly, "Dad?"
He didn't answer.
Neither did the cook.
That's when she heard it. The creak of the third guestroom door.
She pushed it open.
She was only thirteen, but old enough to understand what she saw.
Gideon, shirtless. Catherine straddling him, giggling as her fingers danced across his chest.
For one, endless moment, no one moved.
Then Catherine screamed.
Gideon grabbed a pillow to cover himself, panic rising in his voice. "Ella—wait! This isn't what it looks like."
But it was.
And the world never looked the same again.
---
Back in the limo, Ella sat silently beside her mother as they pulled away from the chaos. The city blurred beyond the tinted windows.
"I should've told you," Ella whispered. "Back then. About what I saw."
Valeria turned her face slightly. "Why didn't you?"
Ella hesitated. "He made me promise. He said it would break you. That you were already going through so much with the fertility treatments... he begged me."
Valeria closed her eyes.
Of course he did.
Gideon Monroe had always known how to manipulate hearts.
"I hated him for it," Ella said, her voice cracking. "And I hated myself."
Valeria reached over, squeezing her daughter's hand. "None of this is your fault."
"But it feels like it is."
Silence settled between them again.
Then Ella asked, "What happens to the boys now? The ones he had with her?"
Valeria's throat tightened.
No one had spoken of them—not in court, not in private. Two toddlers born from a love that should never have existed.
"I don't know," she admitted. "They're... innocent. But they're hers. And she's behind bars."
"Would you take them in?"
Valeria didn't answer.
Not yet.
---
Back at the Monroe estate, the staff had cleaned everything, but nothing could erase the ghosts.
Every corner held a memory. Every photo on the walls, a lie.
In Gideon's old office, Valeria stepped in alone.
His scent was gone, but his presence lingered—in the rows of books, the untouched cigar case, the decanter of scotch that had gone dusty since the night he died.
She sat at his desk.
Then she opened the drawer—the one she'd always been told never to touch.
Inside was an envelope. Sealed.
Her name written in his handwriting.
Valeria.
Hands trembling, she opened it.
> If you're reading this, I'm already gone.
There's more to the story than you know. Please, take care of them. All of them. Ella... and the boys. I never meant for things to go this far.
Forgive me.
Gideon
The Monroe estate hadn't felt like home in years. Not since Gideon's death. Not since the night paramedics wheeled his cold, lifeless body past the front door while Valeria clutched Ella and screamed for answers that never came.
Now, as Valeria stood in the dim glow of his office with Gideon's final letter in hand, she felt a shiver crawl down her spine. His words weren't just a plea. They were a warning.
She tucked the letter away and turned toward the safe.
The same one Gideon kept hidden behind a portrait of his grandfather—the one no one dared touch.
Valeria entered the code.
It clicked open.
Inside were bundles of documents: ledgers, old love letters, a flash drive, and—what made her breath hitch—a second envelope. This one stamped by Gideon's lawyer, dated just weeks before his death.
She tore it open.
---
> Last Will and Testament of Gideon Monroe
I, Gideon Jacob Monroe, being of sound mind, hereby declare the following:
1. I leave the entirety of the Monroe Estate to my wife, Valeria Adams Monroe, including all business assets, stocks, and investments.
2. A trust fund shall be established for my biological sons, Caleb and Adrian Reyes, under the care of a guardian until they turn twenty-one.
3. Should anything happen to me under unnatural circumstances, a private investigator has been retained. A file has been submitted to Attorney Paul Ridley.
4. My wife is not to be held responsible for any consequences resulting from the truths uncovered after my death.
---
Valeria blinked, stunned.
A trust fund? For her husband's bastard sons?
And more—he knew something might happen to him. He expected betrayal. Maybe even death. But he had done nothing to stop it.
She reached for the flash drive, her pulse pounding.
Before she could insert it into Gideon's old laptop, the door burst open.
It was Ella—face pale, phone clutched in her hand.
"Mom," she said breathlessly. "You need to see this."
Valeria followed her into the living room, where the TV blared breaking news.
"Catherine Reyes has been transferred to state prison—but during the transfer, she reportedly said: 'I wasn't the only one. If I go down, someone else is going with me.'"
The anchor continued, "Authorities are now investigating whether more individuals were involved in the cover-up surrounding billionaire Gideon Monroe's death…"
Valeria felt her stomach twist.
Who else?
Was it just the doctor?
Or was someone closer—someone inside this house—involved too?
She turned to Ella.
But Ella was staring at the screen, her face pale. "Mom… the nanny," she whispered. "Remember Mrs. Doreen? She was there the night he died. She left the next morning and never came back."
Valeria's breath caught.
She hadn't thought about Doreen in years.
But now, it all rushed back—the nursemaid who'd suddenly resigned. The text Gideon had deleted before she could read it. The bottle of wine that had tasted off but went ignored.