Chapter 13
The verdict came three days later.
Serena Blackwell: guilty on all counts. Sentenced to nine years.
I watched the coverage from Ezra's penthouse. Serena being led from the courthouse—silent, shaking, clawing at her own throat as if she could force her voice back into existence.
The internet was merciless.
Videos went viral. Memes. Commentary.
*"The sister who stole a voice... lost her own."*
*"Karma doesn't need a microphone."*
Victor and Margot released a public statement disowning Serena.
Three lines. Cold. Corporate.
They didn't mention me.
Margot tried to call once—a week after sentencing. I let it ring.
Her voicemail was a masterclass in selective memory.
"Iris, sweetheart—we had no idea. You have to believe us. We're your parents. Please come home."
I deleted it.
The trust was released without ceremony. A wire transfer notification on a Thursday morning. Five million, liquid.
I donated half to a foundation for children with speech disorders.
The rest went into an account I'd never have to beg anyone to access.
Three months after the trial, I got a letter from Serena.
Handwritten. Shaky. Smudged.
"Iris—I can't speak. The doctors don't know why. They say it might be permanent. Is this how you felt? Every day? For all those years?"
She'd written two more pages. Excuses. Justifications. A half-apology buried under self-pity.
At the very bottom: "I'm sorry. I think. I don't know if I mean it yet. But I'm trying."
I read it once.
Folded it.
Put it in a drawer.
Maybe one day I'd feel something about it. Forgiveness. Closure. Something soft.
Today was not that day.
I found Ezra in his office that evening—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, reading something on his laptop with a faint crease between his brows.
He looked up when I entered. His expression didn't change—but something shifted behind his eyes. The way it always did.
"You're thinking loudly again," he said.
I smiled. Walked closer until I was standing right beside his chair.
And then—because I could—I said it out loud.
"You heard everything I ever thought about you."
"I did."
"Every insult."
"Many insults. Creative ones."
"And you still married me."
His gaze held mine. Steady. Warm in a way that would've terrified me six months ago.
"Iris. You called me a 'soulless refrigerator in a bespoke suit' within ten minutes of meeting me."
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. "And?"
"And I thought—" He paused. A rare hesitation. "I thought: finally. Someone honest."
---
Serena Blackwell: guilty on all counts. Sentenced to nine years.
I watched the coverage from Ezra's penthouse. Serena being led from the courthouse—silent, shaking, clawing at her own throat as if she could force her voice back into existence.
The internet was merciless.
Videos went viral. Memes. Commentary.
*"The sister who stole a voice... lost her own."*
*"Karma doesn't need a microphone."*
Victor and Margot released a public statement disowning Serena.
Three lines. Cold. Corporate.
They didn't mention me.
Margot tried to call once—a week after sentencing. I let it ring.
Her voicemail was a masterclass in selective memory.
"Iris, sweetheart—we had no idea. You have to believe us. We're your parents. Please come home."
I deleted it.
The trust was released without ceremony. A wire transfer notification on a Thursday morning. Five million, liquid.
I donated half to a foundation for children with speech disorders.
The rest went into an account I'd never have to beg anyone to access.
Three months after the trial, I got a letter from Serena.
Handwritten. Shaky. Smudged.
"Iris—I can't speak. The doctors don't know why. They say it might be permanent. Is this how you felt? Every day? For all those years?"
She'd written two more pages. Excuses. Justifications. A half-apology buried under self-pity.
At the very bottom: "I'm sorry. I think. I don't know if I mean it yet. But I'm trying."
I read it once.
Folded it.
Put it in a drawer.
Maybe one day I'd feel something about it. Forgiveness. Closure. Something soft.
Today was not that day.
I found Ezra in his office that evening—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, reading something on his laptop with a faint crease between his brows.
He looked up when I entered. His expression didn't change—but something shifted behind his eyes. The way it always did.
"You're thinking loudly again," he said.
I smiled. Walked closer until I was standing right beside his chair.
And then—because I could—I said it out loud.
"You heard everything I ever thought about you."
"I did."
"Every insult."
"Many insults. Creative ones."
"And you still married me."
His gaze held mine. Steady. Warm in a way that would've terrified me six months ago.
"Iris. You called me a 'soulless refrigerator in a bespoke suit' within ten minutes of meeting me."
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. "And?"
"And I thought—" He paused. A rare hesitation. "I thought: finally. Someone honest."
---