11. Jade
— ? —
Jade
The days after the gala pass in a blur of legal meetings and strategizing.
Damian’s lawyers are the best money can buy, sharp, ruthless, completely unfazed by the Castillo name.
They look at the evidence against me, at the digital forensics reports Damian’s investigators compiled, and they see what I’ve known all along: a frame job.
Sloppy in places. Careful in others. But ultimately traceable back to one person.
Vivian.
“The IP addresses on the fraudulent transfers originated from her personal laptop,” the lead attorney explains, spreading documents across the conference table.
“The forged signatures have inconsistencies consistent with digital manipulation rather than hand copying. And several of the ‘incriminating’ emails were backdated, the metadata doesn’t match the claimed send dates. ”
“So we can prove I didn’t do it,” I say.
“We can raise significant reasonable doubt about the original conviction. Combined with Mrs. Castillo’s established motive - the affair with your husband, the desire to remove you from the picture - we have grounds for appeal.”
“And Nova?”
The attorney’s expression softens slightly. “Custody cases are complicated. But given the circumstances of your conviction, the evidence of fraud in the original proceedings, and the recent threatening messages from Mrs. Castillo...” He exchanges a glance with Damian. “We have a strong case.”
***
The hearing date is set for three weeks out.
Three weeks of waiting. Three weeks of not knowing. Three weeks of waking up every morning wondering if today is the day Vivian does something desperate.
The threatening text wasn’t the last.
They come at random intervals - sometimes days apart, sometimes hours. Photos of Nova at school. At the park. Walking down the street. Always with the same message: Mine. Not yours. Never yours.
“She’s trying to scare you,” Damian says when I show him the latest one. “She’s losing control and she knows it.”
“It’s working.” I hate admitting it, but it’s true. Every photo sends ice through my veins. “What if she runs? What if she takes Nova and disappears before the hearing?”
“She won’t.” His jaw is tight. “I’ve got people watching her. If she tries to leave the city, we’ll know.”
“And if that’s not enough?”
He pulls me close. “Then we’ll find another way. We’re not going to lose, Jade. Not after everything we’ve been through.”
I want to believe him.
I’m trying to believe him.
***
Damian
The night before the hearing, sleep refuses to come.
I lie in the darkness, utterly still, watching Jade the way I’ve watched her so many nights since she came back to me - like she might disappear if I close my eyes. Like she’s a dream I’ll wake from if I let my guard down for even a moment.
The moonlight spills through the curtains in pale ribbons, painting silver across her features.
She looks peaceful when she sleeps. Younger.
The hard lines that bracket her mouth during the day have softened, and the furrow between her brows - the one that appeared somewhere in those four years and never quite goes away - has smoothed into nothing.
Her chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, and I find myself breathing in time with her, synchronizing myself to the proof that she’s alive, she’s here, she’s real.
Four years.
The number echoes in my skull like a bell tolling.
Four years she spent in a concrete cell while I tore my life apart trying to find a way to save her.
Four years of her daughter’s first words, first steps, first everything - stolen by a woman who shares her blood and feels nothing, and by a man who also shares my blood, but has nothing to do with me.
Four years of gray walls and fluorescent lights and the slow, grinding erosion of hope.
The loneliness. God, the loneliness. Jade has always needed connection the way other people need oxygen.
She’s the kind of person who remembers birthdays and asks follow-up questions and actually listens when you answer.
To take someone like that and lock her away from everyone who ever loved her - it would be like burying her alive.
And Nova.
I watch Jade’s sleeping face and I think about the forty-eight hours she got with her daughter.
Forty-eight hours to memorize the shape of her nose, the curl of her fingers, the sound of her cry.
And then they took her away, and Jade has spent every day since then carrying that absence like a wound that won’t heal.
She doesn’t talk about it much. The few times she’s tried, the words seem to get stuck somewhere in her throat, and her eyes go distant, and I’ve learned to just hold her until the moment passes.
But I see it. I see the way she flinches when we pass a playground.
The way she freezes in the grocery store when a child calls out for her mother.
The way she sometimes presses her hand to her stomach - flat and empty now - like she’s searching for something that’s no longer there.
Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow we start making it right.
Or we lose everything.
The thought coils in my chest like a snake, cold and venomous.
I’ve spent four years building this case.
Four years gathering evidence, hiring investigators, tracking money trails through a maze of shell companies and offshore accounts.
Four years learning exactly how deep Vivian’s deception goes - and it goes deep.
Deeper than I imagined. Deeper than anyone would believe if I didn’t have the documentation to prove it.
And then there’s Vivian.
I’ve underestimated her before. We all did. Looked at her pretty face and charming smile and saw exactly what she wanted us to see, the devoted sister, the supportive friend, the woman who would never hurt anyone.
I won’t make that mistake again.
***
Around 3 AM, I give up the pretense of trying to sleep.
I slip out of bed carefully, holding my breath as I ease my weight off the mattress. Jade stirs - just slightly, a small sound escaping her lips - and I freeze, waiting. But she settles back into the pillow, her breathing evening out, and I allow myself to exhale.
Let her rest. She needs it. Tomorrow is going to be brutal.
My office is dark except for the blue glow of computer monitors. I don’t turn on the lights - don’t want to risk the brightness filtering down the hallway and waking her. Instead, I settle into my chair and stare at the wall of evidence I’ve assembled for the trial.
If she shows up.
The thought has been gnawing at me for days. A quiet dread I haven’t shared with Jade because she has enough to carry without me adding to it.
I know Vivian. I’ve spent four years studying her. And if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s this: Vivian doesn’t lose. She doesn’t sit in courtrooms and accept consequences. She escapes.
My stomach turns to ice.
I text Martinez.
Double the surveillance. Eyes on Vivian every second. If she moves, I want to know immediately.
His response comes fast. Understood.
I set the phone down and stare at the wall of evidence.
I can’t tell Jade. Not tonight. She needs to walk into that courtroom tomorrow with hope, not fear. She needs to believe the system will work this time.
So I’ll carry this alone.
And if Vivian tries to run, I’ll be ready.