Chapter 10
Three weeks later, I was healing.
The stitches dissolved on their own. The scar was an ugly pink line across my lower belly—a permanent reminder of the worst night of my life. But it was closing. Everything was closing.
Sophia was perfect. Growing fast, eating well, sleeping in that boneless way newborns do. She had my mother's eyes—dark and deep and knowing.
I'd been staying at the estate. Hadn't decided what came next yet. Wasn't ready to.
The fallout from the stream was everywhere.
Roman's team had worked fast. Every viewer who'd sent gifts during the C-section—every single one who'd typed encouragement while I was being cut open conscious—got a visit.
The minor ones got lawsuits. Federal charges for conspiracy, accessory, digital facilitation of assault. Their real names got leaked. Employers were contacted. Lives dismantled piece by piece.
The bigger fish—the ones who'd sent thousands, who'd egged Vivian on, who'd typed things like "cut deeper" and "make her scream more"—they got something else entirely.
Nobody talked about what happened to them. But their accounts all went dark on the same night. Every single one.
The doctor—Park—lost his license first. Then his freedom. Then, according to Roman, his nerve. Confessed to everything in exchange for protection.
Dad's lawyers weren't offering protection.
The judge Derek had bribed resigned quietly. Moved out of state. The moving truck got there. He didn't.
One by one, every person who'd touched that night got erased. Not always violently. Sometimes a career ended. Sometimes a marriage collapsed. Sometimes a bank account emptied overnight.
My father was thorough. Always had been.
I was sitting in the garden, Sophia in my lap, when Roman found me.
"There's something you should see." He held out a tablet.
On screen was a news article. Local paper.
DEREK CALLOWAY AND VIVIAN CROSS REPORTED MISSING — POLICE SUSPECT FOUL PLAY
I read it twice. Felt nothing.
"Police won't find anything," Roman said. Not a question.
"No. They won't."
He sat down on the bench beside me. Quiet for a while.
"Your dad wants to know your plans."
"I don't have any yet."
"He's worried you'll leave again."
I looked down at Sophia. She was staring up at me with those ancient newborn eyes, one tiny fist wrapped around my finger.
Last time I left, I was eighteen and stupid and convinced that love would save me from my own blood. That I could be someone else. Someone soft and normal and invisible.
Look where that got me.
"I'm not leaving," I said.
Roman exhaled. Like he'd been holding his breath for eight years.
"Good. Because there's something else." He tapped the tablet. Pulled up another screen.
Phone records. Derek's phone records from the last year.
"What am I looking at?"
"Derek wasn't working alone. Not just the doctor and the judge. There's someone else. Someone higher up. Someone who put the whole thing together."
My stomach dropped.
"Who?"
Roman zoomed in on a number. Dozens of calls. Hundreds of texts. Going back eighteen months.
"We traced it to a burner. But the burner was purchased with a credit card registered to—"
He stopped.
"Roman. Who."
His jaw flexed.
"Your father's business partner. Marcus Webb."
The blood drained from my face.
Marcus Webb. My father's oldest friend. My godfather. The man who bounced me on his knee at Christmas, who walked me down the aisle at my fake wedding because Dad couldn't show his face.
The man who handed me to Derek.
The stitches dissolved on their own. The scar was an ugly pink line across my lower belly—a permanent reminder of the worst night of my life. But it was closing. Everything was closing.
Sophia was perfect. Growing fast, eating well, sleeping in that boneless way newborns do. She had my mother's eyes—dark and deep and knowing.
I'd been staying at the estate. Hadn't decided what came next yet. Wasn't ready to.
The fallout from the stream was everywhere.
Roman's team had worked fast. Every viewer who'd sent gifts during the C-section—every single one who'd typed encouragement while I was being cut open conscious—got a visit.
The minor ones got lawsuits. Federal charges for conspiracy, accessory, digital facilitation of assault. Their real names got leaked. Employers were contacted. Lives dismantled piece by piece.
The bigger fish—the ones who'd sent thousands, who'd egged Vivian on, who'd typed things like "cut deeper" and "make her scream more"—they got something else entirely.
Nobody talked about what happened to them. But their accounts all went dark on the same night. Every single one.
The doctor—Park—lost his license first. Then his freedom. Then, according to Roman, his nerve. Confessed to everything in exchange for protection.
Dad's lawyers weren't offering protection.
The judge Derek had bribed resigned quietly. Moved out of state. The moving truck got there. He didn't.
One by one, every person who'd touched that night got erased. Not always violently. Sometimes a career ended. Sometimes a marriage collapsed. Sometimes a bank account emptied overnight.
My father was thorough. Always had been.
I was sitting in the garden, Sophia in my lap, when Roman found me.
"There's something you should see." He held out a tablet.
On screen was a news article. Local paper.
DEREK CALLOWAY AND VIVIAN CROSS REPORTED MISSING — POLICE SUSPECT FOUL PLAY
I read it twice. Felt nothing.
"Police won't find anything," Roman said. Not a question.
"No. They won't."
He sat down on the bench beside me. Quiet for a while.
"Your dad wants to know your plans."
"I don't have any yet."
"He's worried you'll leave again."
I looked down at Sophia. She was staring up at me with those ancient newborn eyes, one tiny fist wrapped around my finger.
Last time I left, I was eighteen and stupid and convinced that love would save me from my own blood. That I could be someone else. Someone soft and normal and invisible.
Look where that got me.
"I'm not leaving," I said.
Roman exhaled. Like he'd been holding his breath for eight years.
"Good. Because there's something else." He tapped the tablet. Pulled up another screen.
Phone records. Derek's phone records from the last year.
"What am I looking at?"
"Derek wasn't working alone. Not just the doctor and the judge. There's someone else. Someone higher up. Someone who put the whole thing together."
My stomach dropped.
"Who?"
Roman zoomed in on a number. Dozens of calls. Hundreds of texts. Going back eighteen months.
"We traced it to a burner. But the burner was purchased with a credit card registered to—"
He stopped.
"Roman. Who."
His jaw flexed.
"Your father's business partner. Marcus Webb."
The blood drained from my face.
Marcus Webb. My father's oldest friend. My godfather. The man who bounced me on his knee at Christmas, who walked me down the aisle at my fake wedding because Dad couldn't show his face.
The man who handed me to Derek.