Chapter 10
The trial was swift. Brutal. And public.
Roman hired the best prosecution team money could buy—three former federal attorneys who'd never lost a case.
Dominic's defense crumbled within the first week.
His lawyer tried everything: claiming entrapment, questioning the chain of evidence, even suggesting I'd staged my own death for sympathy.
But the evidence was overwhelming. Video. Audio. Financial records. Witness testimony.
The mechanic who'd killed my mother broke down on the stand. Confessed everything. Named Dominic as the sole orchestrator.
The jury didn't need more than four hours.
Guilty on all counts. First-degree murder. Attempted murder. Fraud. Conspiracy.
Sentence: Life without parole.
When the verdict was read, Dominic didn't scream. Didn't cry.
He just... looked at me.
Across the courtroom, through a sea of cameras and legal teams—his eyes found mine.
And for the first time, I read his sin score.
It hadn't changed. Still **97**.
But beneath it, I saw something new in the flash.
Regret. Not for what he'd done—but for getting caught.
He was still a monster. He'd die one.
I held his gaze until they took him away.
Then I stood, smoothed my dress, and walked out into the sunlight.
Camille received fifteen years. Accessory to murder, conspiracy, fraud.
In prison, without her designer clothes and Instagram filters, she was nothing.
Just a scared girl who'd gambled everything on a dead man's plan.
My father—Henry—got twelve years.
The judge called his betrayal "a profound moral failure—selling his own child for financial gain."
He cried during sentencing. Crocodile tears.
I didn't attend his hearing.
Instead, I signed the final trust documents.
Three billion dollars.
My mother's legacy. My birthright.
It hit different, seeing that number on paper. Not triumph—just... weight.
Responsibility.
I appointed a board of advisors. Restructured the pharmaceutical division. Launched a foundation in my mother's name—funding domestic violence shelters and legal aid for women trapped by abusive partners.
Eleanor Ashford Women's Foundation.
It felt right. Like something she would've wanted.
Roman never asked for a share. Never hinted. Never leveraged his help into financial expectation.
When I offered to repay him—legal fees, security costs, seven years of protection—he looked at me like I'd insulted him.
"I didn't do it for money, Vivian."
"Then why?"
He was quiet for a long time.
We were on his terrace—late evening, city spread below us like a circuit board.
"Your grandfather saw something in me," he said finally. "When I was twenty-five—newly orphaned, furious at the world—he offered me a purpose. 'Protect my granddaughter,' he said. 'And I'll teach you how to build something worth protecting.'"
"So he mentored you?"
"He gave me everything. My first investor. My first deal. The foundation of Kessler Corp." Roman's voice was raw. "All he asked in return was that I keep you safe."
"And you did."
"I failed."
"I'm alive."
"Barely." His fists clenched against the railing. "Three minutes later, and you would have—"
"But I didn't." I covered his hand with mine. "I'm here. Because of you."
He turned his hand over. Laced his fingers through mine.
"Vivian."
"Mm?"
"I'm done pretending this is just... obligation."
My heart stuttered.
"Then what is it?"
He pulled me closer—one hand at my waist, the other tilting my chin up.
"It's you," he murmured. "It's always been you."
When he kissed me, the city disappeared.
Everything did.
There was only warmth, and safety, and the terrifying, beautiful certainty that I'd finally found someone whose soul matched their actions.
Zero sins.
And infinite devotion.
---
Roman hired the best prosecution team money could buy—three former federal attorneys who'd never lost a case.
Dominic's defense crumbled within the first week.
His lawyer tried everything: claiming entrapment, questioning the chain of evidence, even suggesting I'd staged my own death for sympathy.
But the evidence was overwhelming. Video. Audio. Financial records. Witness testimony.
The mechanic who'd killed my mother broke down on the stand. Confessed everything. Named Dominic as the sole orchestrator.
The jury didn't need more than four hours.
Guilty on all counts. First-degree murder. Attempted murder. Fraud. Conspiracy.
Sentence: Life without parole.
When the verdict was read, Dominic didn't scream. Didn't cry.
He just... looked at me.
Across the courtroom, through a sea of cameras and legal teams—his eyes found mine.
And for the first time, I read his sin score.
It hadn't changed. Still **97**.
But beneath it, I saw something new in the flash.
Regret. Not for what he'd done—but for getting caught.
He was still a monster. He'd die one.
I held his gaze until they took him away.
Then I stood, smoothed my dress, and walked out into the sunlight.
Camille received fifteen years. Accessory to murder, conspiracy, fraud.
In prison, without her designer clothes and Instagram filters, she was nothing.
Just a scared girl who'd gambled everything on a dead man's plan.
My father—Henry—got twelve years.
The judge called his betrayal "a profound moral failure—selling his own child for financial gain."
He cried during sentencing. Crocodile tears.
I didn't attend his hearing.
Instead, I signed the final trust documents.
Three billion dollars.
My mother's legacy. My birthright.
It hit different, seeing that number on paper. Not triumph—just... weight.
Responsibility.
I appointed a board of advisors. Restructured the pharmaceutical division. Launched a foundation in my mother's name—funding domestic violence shelters and legal aid for women trapped by abusive partners.
Eleanor Ashford Women's Foundation.
It felt right. Like something she would've wanted.
Roman never asked for a share. Never hinted. Never leveraged his help into financial expectation.
When I offered to repay him—legal fees, security costs, seven years of protection—he looked at me like I'd insulted him.
"I didn't do it for money, Vivian."
"Then why?"
He was quiet for a long time.
We were on his terrace—late evening, city spread below us like a circuit board.
"Your grandfather saw something in me," he said finally. "When I was twenty-five—newly orphaned, furious at the world—he offered me a purpose. 'Protect my granddaughter,' he said. 'And I'll teach you how to build something worth protecting.'"
"So he mentored you?"
"He gave me everything. My first investor. My first deal. The foundation of Kessler Corp." Roman's voice was raw. "All he asked in return was that I keep you safe."
"And you did."
"I failed."
"I'm alive."
"Barely." His fists clenched against the railing. "Three minutes later, and you would have—"
"But I didn't." I covered his hand with mine. "I'm here. Because of you."
He turned his hand over. Laced his fingers through mine.
"Vivian."
"Mm?"
"I'm done pretending this is just... obligation."
My heart stuttered.
"Then what is it?"
He pulled me closer—one hand at my waist, the other tilting my chin up.
"It's you," he murmured. "It's always been you."
When he kissed me, the city disappeared.
Everything did.
There was only warmth, and safety, and the terrifying, beautiful certainty that I'd finally found someone whose soul matched their actions.
Zero sins.
And infinite devotion.
---