Chapter 10
The trial began eight weeks later.
It dominated every news cycle, every social media feed, every true-crime podcast in the country. The billionaire who murdered his wife for her heart. The story was so grotesque, so unthinkably evil, that the public consumed it with a mixture of horror and fascination.
Damian sat in the defendant's box looking like a skeleton wrapped in an expensive suit. He'd lost thirty pounds since his arrest. His eyes were sunken, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.
My father sat in the gallery every single day. He never missed a session. He wore the same dark suit—the one he'd worn to my funeral—and he watched Damian with an expression of absolute, unwavering hatred.
Mom wasn't there. She couldn't be. She was still in the hospital, still unreachable, still lost in the fog of grief that had swallowed her whole.
The prosecution laid out their case with devastating precision. Bank records. Shell companies. The truck driver's confession. Dr. Webb's payment records. The tampered traffic camera. And finally—my letter.
When the prosecutor read my letter aloud in court, the gallery went silent.
"If something happens to me, look at Damian. Look at Sienna. Look at my heart. I think my husband is planning to kill me. I think he wants to give my heart to the woman he actually loves."
My words hung in the courtroom like a living thing. Several jurors wiped their eyes. One covered her mouth.
Damian stared at the table in front of him. He didn't look up.
The defense tried everything—claimed the evidence was circumstantial, that the shell companies were managed by third parties, that Damian had no direct involvement in the camera installation or the truck driver's hiring.
But Volkov's testimony was unshakeable. And Dr. Webb—who'd been tracked down in Singapore and extradited—corroborated everything in exchange for a reduced sentence.
On the stand, Webb described how Damian had approached him eighteen months before my death.
"He asked if it was possible to guarantee a transplant match. I told him it was ethically impossible through legitimate channels. He said ethics weren't his concern." Webb stared at his hands. "He offered me more money than I'd make in twenty years of practice."
"And the brain-death declaration?" the prosecutor asked.
Webb's voice dropped to a whisper. "She wasn't brain-dead when they brought her in. She was in a coma. Severe head trauma, but there was still activity. I... falsified the assessment."
The gallery erupted. The judge banged his gavel. My father sat perfectly still, his knuckles white against his knees.
I stood beside my father, and I watched the man who murdered me finally face the weight of what he'd done.
The jury deliberated for less than four hours.
Guilty. On all counts.
When the verdict was read, Damian showed no reaction. He simply closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath—like a man who'd been holding it for months.
My father stood up from his seat. For a moment, I thought he might say something—scream, curse, collapse. Instead, he simply walked out of the courtroom with his shoulders straight and his head held high.
But the moment he stepped into the hallway, out of everyone's sight, his knees buckled. He collapsed against the wall and sobbed—great, heaving, silent sobs that shook his entire body.
I knelt beside him. I pressed my forehead against his. "It's over, Dad. You did it. It's over."
He couldn't hear me. But his sobs gradually quieted, and after a long moment, he took a shuddering breath and whispered: "I hope you're at peace now, my Elly."
It dominated every news cycle, every social media feed, every true-crime podcast in the country. The billionaire who murdered his wife for her heart. The story was so grotesque, so unthinkably evil, that the public consumed it with a mixture of horror and fascination.
Damian sat in the defendant's box looking like a skeleton wrapped in an expensive suit. He'd lost thirty pounds since his arrest. His eyes were sunken, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.
My father sat in the gallery every single day. He never missed a session. He wore the same dark suit—the one he'd worn to my funeral—and he watched Damian with an expression of absolute, unwavering hatred.
Mom wasn't there. She couldn't be. She was still in the hospital, still unreachable, still lost in the fog of grief that had swallowed her whole.
The prosecution laid out their case with devastating precision. Bank records. Shell companies. The truck driver's confession. Dr. Webb's payment records. The tampered traffic camera. And finally—my letter.
When the prosecutor read my letter aloud in court, the gallery went silent.
"If something happens to me, look at Damian. Look at Sienna. Look at my heart. I think my husband is planning to kill me. I think he wants to give my heart to the woman he actually loves."
My words hung in the courtroom like a living thing. Several jurors wiped their eyes. One covered her mouth.
Damian stared at the table in front of him. He didn't look up.
The defense tried everything—claimed the evidence was circumstantial, that the shell companies were managed by third parties, that Damian had no direct involvement in the camera installation or the truck driver's hiring.
But Volkov's testimony was unshakeable. And Dr. Webb—who'd been tracked down in Singapore and extradited—corroborated everything in exchange for a reduced sentence.
On the stand, Webb described how Damian had approached him eighteen months before my death.
"He asked if it was possible to guarantee a transplant match. I told him it was ethically impossible through legitimate channels. He said ethics weren't his concern." Webb stared at his hands. "He offered me more money than I'd make in twenty years of practice."
"And the brain-death declaration?" the prosecutor asked.
Webb's voice dropped to a whisper. "She wasn't brain-dead when they brought her in. She was in a coma. Severe head trauma, but there was still activity. I... falsified the assessment."
The gallery erupted. The judge banged his gavel. My father sat perfectly still, his knuckles white against his knees.
I stood beside my father, and I watched the man who murdered me finally face the weight of what he'd done.
The jury deliberated for less than four hours.
Guilty. On all counts.
When the verdict was read, Damian showed no reaction. He simply closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath—like a man who'd been holding it for months.
My father stood up from his seat. For a moment, I thought he might say something—scream, curse, collapse. Instead, he simply walked out of the courtroom with his shoulders straight and his head held high.
But the moment he stepped into the hallway, out of everyone's sight, his knees buckled. He collapsed against the wall and sobbed—great, heaving, silent sobs that shook his entire body.
I knelt beside him. I pressed my forehead against his. "It's over, Dad. You did it. It's over."
He couldn't hear me. But his sobs gradually quieted, and after a long moment, he took a shuddering breath and whispered: "I hope you're at peace now, my Elly."