My new apartment was modest compared to the sprawling Mercer estate. It was small, it was quiet, and the dining table was cluttered with medical journals instead of forced apologies.

The only flowers in the rooms were the bright orchids I bought for myself, simply because I found them beautiful.

Evan was sitting in a county holding cell, his bail revoked after he attempted to contact me, awaiting his criminal trial. The grand Mercer mansion, the golden cage that had held me for seven years, was listed on the market, its price slashed twice to attract buyers.

I adjusted the collar of my coat and walked down the street, my heels clicking a steady, confident rhythm against the pavement. For the first time in seven long years, my body no longer felt like a crime scene waiting to be discovered.

It no longer felt like a piece of evidence to be debated by lawyers.

It felt, unequivocally and entirely, like mine.