Chapter 11
Six months after the trial, life had settled into something almost normal.
Almost.
Because "normal" for me now meant board meetings, foundation galas, and waking up next to the most feared man on Wall Street.
Roman hadn't changed. Still stern. Still controlled. Still incapable of leaving a room without straightening every object I'd displaced.
But with me—he was different.
Softer. Playful, even. In ways no one else ever saw.
He'd learned to cook. Badly—but he did it every Sunday morning.
Burnt eggs. Lopsided pancakes. Coffee strong enough to dissolve steel.
I ate every bite.
One morning, as I was scrolling through foundation reports, my phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
"Who is this?"
A woman's voice—brittle, desperate.
"Vivian? It's Serena. Serena Whitmore."
I sat up. "What's wrong?"
"I need to see you. Today. It's about Dominic."
"He's in prison."
"I know. But—" Her voice cracked. "He's not done. Someone's been contacting me. Threatening me. Saying if I don't recant my testimony, they'll—"
The line went dead.
I immediately called Roman.
His response was instantaneous. "I'll have a team at her location in ten minutes. Don't leave the building."
But Serena didn't answer any follow-up calls.
By noon, Roman's security team reported: her apartment was empty. Cleared out. No signs of struggle—but no signs of Serena either.
She'd vanished.
"Dominic's reaching out from prison," I said. "He still has connections."
Roman's jaw was steel. "Not for long."
He made three calls. Within the hour, Dominic was transferred to solitary confinement—all communication privileges revoked, pending investigation.
But the damage lingered.
Because whoever Dominic had contacted... was still out there.
That evening, I used my ability for the first time in weeks.
I'd been avoiding it—using it less and less as my life stabilized. It felt invasive. Wrong, even.
But now, necessity overrode morality.
I visited the prison. Told them I needed closure. Played the traumatized ex-wife card—it worked beautifully.
They put me in a room with reinforced glass between us.
Dominic looked... diminished. Orange jumpsuit. Shadows under his eyes. Weight loss.
But his smile—God, that smile—hadn't changed.
"Vivian." He leaned forward. "Miss me?"
**97.**
I focused.
The flash hit—
—Dominic, one week ago, writing a letter. Slipping it to a guard. The guard's face—I memorized it.
—The letter's contents, blurred but partially legible: "...eliminate Whitmore... before retrial motion..."
—A name at the bottom: Marcus Webb.
I pulled out of the vision. Kept my face perfectly neutral.
"Just wanted to see if prison's treating you well," I said lightly. "You look terrible, by the way."
His smile faltered.
"Enjoy your freedom, Vivian. It won't last."
I stood. Walked away without looking back.
In the car, I called Roman.
"Marcus Webb. Find him. Now."
Within 48 hours, Marcus Webb was in custody.
He was a fixer—a former private military contractor turned mercenary-for-hire. Dominic had been funneling payments to him through a corrupt prison guard for months.
Webb's sin score? **82**.
He'd done things that made my stomach turn.
But more importantly—he knew where Serena was.
She was alive. Hiding in a safe house Webb had "arranged" for her—one that doubled as a trap.
Roman's team extracted her before Webb's people could act.
I met Serena at the hospital the next day. She was shaken but unharmed.
"Thank you," she whispered, gripping my hand. "I thought I was dead."
"You're safe now." I squeezed back. "And Dominic's never getting out."
With Webb's testimony and the guard's confession, Dominic's sentence was extended.
No possibility of appeal. No parole hearing.
He'd rot.
And I?
I was finally free.
---
Almost.
Because "normal" for me now meant board meetings, foundation galas, and waking up next to the most feared man on Wall Street.
Roman hadn't changed. Still stern. Still controlled. Still incapable of leaving a room without straightening every object I'd displaced.
But with me—he was different.
Softer. Playful, even. In ways no one else ever saw.
He'd learned to cook. Badly—but he did it every Sunday morning.
Burnt eggs. Lopsided pancakes. Coffee strong enough to dissolve steel.
I ate every bite.
One morning, as I was scrolling through foundation reports, my phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
"Who is this?"
A woman's voice—brittle, desperate.
"Vivian? It's Serena. Serena Whitmore."
I sat up. "What's wrong?"
"I need to see you. Today. It's about Dominic."
"He's in prison."
"I know. But—" Her voice cracked. "He's not done. Someone's been contacting me. Threatening me. Saying if I don't recant my testimony, they'll—"
The line went dead.
I immediately called Roman.
His response was instantaneous. "I'll have a team at her location in ten minutes. Don't leave the building."
But Serena didn't answer any follow-up calls.
By noon, Roman's security team reported: her apartment was empty. Cleared out. No signs of struggle—but no signs of Serena either.
She'd vanished.
"Dominic's reaching out from prison," I said. "He still has connections."
Roman's jaw was steel. "Not for long."
He made three calls. Within the hour, Dominic was transferred to solitary confinement—all communication privileges revoked, pending investigation.
But the damage lingered.
Because whoever Dominic had contacted... was still out there.
That evening, I used my ability for the first time in weeks.
I'd been avoiding it—using it less and less as my life stabilized. It felt invasive. Wrong, even.
But now, necessity overrode morality.
I visited the prison. Told them I needed closure. Played the traumatized ex-wife card—it worked beautifully.
They put me in a room with reinforced glass between us.
Dominic looked... diminished. Orange jumpsuit. Shadows under his eyes. Weight loss.
But his smile—God, that smile—hadn't changed.
"Vivian." He leaned forward. "Miss me?"
**97.**
I focused.
The flash hit—
—Dominic, one week ago, writing a letter. Slipping it to a guard. The guard's face—I memorized it.
—The letter's contents, blurred but partially legible: "...eliminate Whitmore... before retrial motion..."
—A name at the bottom: Marcus Webb.
I pulled out of the vision. Kept my face perfectly neutral.
"Just wanted to see if prison's treating you well," I said lightly. "You look terrible, by the way."
His smile faltered.
"Enjoy your freedom, Vivian. It won't last."
I stood. Walked away without looking back.
In the car, I called Roman.
"Marcus Webb. Find him. Now."
Within 48 hours, Marcus Webb was in custody.
He was a fixer—a former private military contractor turned mercenary-for-hire. Dominic had been funneling payments to him through a corrupt prison guard for months.
Webb's sin score? **82**.
He'd done things that made my stomach turn.
But more importantly—he knew where Serena was.
She was alive. Hiding in a safe house Webb had "arranged" for her—one that doubled as a trap.
Roman's team extracted her before Webb's people could act.
I met Serena at the hospital the next day. She was shaken but unharmed.
"Thank you," she whispered, gripping my hand. "I thought I was dead."
"You're safe now." I squeezed back. "And Dominic's never getting out."
With Webb's testimony and the guard's confession, Dominic's sentence was extended.
No possibility of appeal. No parole hearing.
He'd rot.
And I?
I was finally free.
---