Chapter 11
Damian was sentenced to life without parole.
As the judge read the sentence, I waited to feel something—triumph, relief, closure. Instead, all I felt was the same hollow ache that had been my companion since death.
Justice had been served. But my heart was gone. My mother was gone—lost inside herself, unreachable. My father was a shell of the man he'd been. And I was still dead.
Nothing could undo that.
Sienna survived the surgery, though "survived" was a generous term. She lived tethered to a mechanical pump, trapped in a hospital bed, too weak to stand. Her lawyers negotiated a plea deal for her role in the conspiracy—fifteen years, served in a medical facility that could maintain her device.
She would spend those years in a sterile room, listening to the mechanical whir where a heartbeat should be. There was a poetic cruelty to it that even I couldn't have designed.
One week after sentencing, Damian requested a visitor—my father.
Dad almost didn't go. He sat at the kitchen table for two hours, staring at the visitation request form, before finally putting on his coat.
The prison visiting room was divided by thick glass panels. Damian sat on the other side, wearing an orange jumpsuit that hung off his emaciated frame.
When Dad sat down and picked up the phone, Damian started talking immediately.
"I need you to know—"
"I don't need anything from you," Dad said.
"Please." Damian's voice broke. "I need to say this. Not for forgiveness. I know I don't deserve that. But I need you to know that I loved her once. In the beginning, I did love her."
Dad stared at him. Silent. Unblinking.
"When Sienna left for Europe, I was destroyed. Arabella was there. She picked me up. She put me back together. And I was grateful—so grateful that I confused it for love." Damian's eyes were red, but no tears fell. He was past tears.
"When Sienna came back, everything I thought I'd buried came rushing back. And Arabella... she became invisible to me. She was always there—always cooking, always caring, always putting me first—and I hated her for it."
"You hated her for loving you?" Dad's voice was dangerously quiet.
"I hated her because she made it impossible to justify leaving. She was perfect. And I resented her perfection because it meant I was the villain." Damian pressed his forehead against the glass. "So I convinced myself she wasn't perfect. I told myself she was controlling, overbearing, smothering. I rewrote her in my mind until I could look at Sienna without guilt."
"And then you killed her."
"Sienna was dying. Her heart was failing. And Arabella was... a perfect match." Damian's voice was barely audible. "I told myself it was practical. That Arabella's life was less important than Sienna's. That I was making a rational decision."
Dad slammed his palm against the glass so hard the entire panel shook. Damian flinched backward.
"My daughter cooked your meals. Managed your home. Gave up her career to support yours. She trusted you with her life, and you butchered her like livestock." Dad's voice was shaking now. "Don't you dare sit there and rationalize it. Don't you dare."
Damian had no response. He simply sat there, diminished, pathetic—a man who'd had everything and destroyed it all.
Dad stood up. He placed the phone back on its hook. And then he said three final words that Damian could read through the glass.
"Rot in hell."
He walked away without looking back.
As the judge read the sentence, I waited to feel something—triumph, relief, closure. Instead, all I felt was the same hollow ache that had been my companion since death.
Justice had been served. But my heart was gone. My mother was gone—lost inside herself, unreachable. My father was a shell of the man he'd been. And I was still dead.
Nothing could undo that.
Sienna survived the surgery, though "survived" was a generous term. She lived tethered to a mechanical pump, trapped in a hospital bed, too weak to stand. Her lawyers negotiated a plea deal for her role in the conspiracy—fifteen years, served in a medical facility that could maintain her device.
She would spend those years in a sterile room, listening to the mechanical whir where a heartbeat should be. There was a poetic cruelty to it that even I couldn't have designed.
One week after sentencing, Damian requested a visitor—my father.
Dad almost didn't go. He sat at the kitchen table for two hours, staring at the visitation request form, before finally putting on his coat.
The prison visiting room was divided by thick glass panels. Damian sat on the other side, wearing an orange jumpsuit that hung off his emaciated frame.
When Dad sat down and picked up the phone, Damian started talking immediately.
"I need you to know—"
"I don't need anything from you," Dad said.
"Please." Damian's voice broke. "I need to say this. Not for forgiveness. I know I don't deserve that. But I need you to know that I loved her once. In the beginning, I did love her."
Dad stared at him. Silent. Unblinking.
"When Sienna left for Europe, I was destroyed. Arabella was there. She picked me up. She put me back together. And I was grateful—so grateful that I confused it for love." Damian's eyes were red, but no tears fell. He was past tears.
"When Sienna came back, everything I thought I'd buried came rushing back. And Arabella... she became invisible to me. She was always there—always cooking, always caring, always putting me first—and I hated her for it."
"You hated her for loving you?" Dad's voice was dangerously quiet.
"I hated her because she made it impossible to justify leaving. She was perfect. And I resented her perfection because it meant I was the villain." Damian pressed his forehead against the glass. "So I convinced myself she wasn't perfect. I told myself she was controlling, overbearing, smothering. I rewrote her in my mind until I could look at Sienna without guilt."
"And then you killed her."
"Sienna was dying. Her heart was failing. And Arabella was... a perfect match." Damian's voice was barely audible. "I told myself it was practical. That Arabella's life was less important than Sienna's. That I was making a rational decision."
Dad slammed his palm against the glass so hard the entire panel shook. Damian flinched backward.
"My daughter cooked your meals. Managed your home. Gave up her career to support yours. She trusted you with her life, and you butchered her like livestock." Dad's voice was shaking now. "Don't you dare sit there and rationalize it. Don't you dare."
Damian had no response. He simply sat there, diminished, pathetic—a man who'd had everything and destroyed it all.
Dad stood up. He placed the phone back on its hook. And then he said three final words that Damian could read through the glass.
"Rot in hell."
He walked away without looking back.