I didn’t care. My husband was a lawyer. He would see justice served.
Turns out, I was the fool.
The trial was a farce. We had evidence: videos, witnesses, reports. Still, the judge ruled in her favor.
Chiara walked free.
And me? I was accused of murdering my own daughter.
When I looked up at the bench, the truth hit me.
The judge was Chiara’s older brother—the very man whose declaration of love I had once refused.
And beside him, quietly smiling, was my husband.
Damian Whitman.
The man I’d trusted with my life. The man I thought I knew.
Once, people called us perfect: the devoted doctor and the brilliant lawyer. But that day, I realized the truth. He wasn’t there to protect me. He was there to protect her.
---
Ten years behind bars taught me the meaning of pain.
They starved me. Beat me. Broke me.
But it wasn’t the bruises that haunted me the most. It was the silence. The not knowing why.
When I finally walked free, I wandered for hours. I can’t even remember how I ended up in front of the ballet school where my daughter used to dance.
And that’s when I saw him.
Damian.