Chapter Twenty-Nine
Crown
Three weeks after the winter garden, I confessed to arranging Victor Devereaux’s death.
Asha called it the worst legal strategy she had encountered in twelve years of practice.
She used several other words after that.
Most were inappropriate inside a federal courthouse.
“You answer only what they ask,” she warned while straightening my tie. “You do not volunteer information, correct anybody’s timeline, or confess to additional crimes because honesty suddenly interests you.”
“I understand.”
“You said that yesterday, then provided the special prosecutor with a list.”
“He requested information.”
“He asked whether anyone helped you poison Victor. You gave him the names of three corrupt medical examiners.”
“They helped.”
Asha closed her eyes.
Jayla sat across the room, attempting to conceal her smile.
“This is not funny,” Asha told her.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Jayla looked toward me.
“I learned that from him.”
She wore a rust-colored dress and Grandma Evelyn’s silver necklace. My grandmother’s engagement ring remained locked inside the family vault.
I hadn’t offered it again.
The first engagement had begun with lies, fear, and a public announcement Jayla never approved. If I asked her to become my wife again, I would do it properly.
Assuming I remained outside prison long enough.
Asha opened her folder.
“The prosecution cannot charge you with Victor’s murder. His remains were cremated, the medical records were falsified, and the recording Lenora released was obtained illegally.”
“You sound disappointed,” I said.
“I’m disappointed that you made my job unnecessarily difficult.”
“What can they prove?” Jayla asked.
“Obstruction of justice, illegal surveillance, and conspiracy to conceal a death. We negotiated a plea.”
“What sentence?” I asked.
Asha looked at me.
“Twelve months of home confinement, five years’ probation, and permanent cooperation with the investigation into Victor’s network.”
Jayla released the breath she had been holding.
“No prison?”
“No prison,” Asha confirmed. “But the court will appoint an outside monitor to examine every Devereaux business.”
“That was already part of the restructuring.”
“And Malachi must step away from executive authority during home confinement.”
“I’m already suspended.”
“The board voted to reinstate you this morning.”
That surprised me.
Asha smiled faintly.
“Once Lenora’s records exposed Julian’s plan to sell Maritime, the remaining shareholders suddenly remembered how much they respected your leadership.”
“They respect money.”
“Yes. They remembered who made it.”
I adjusted my cuff.
“I won’t return.”
Both women looked at me.
“You fought for that company your entire life,” Jayla said.
“I fought because I believed the chair proved Victor failed to take everything from us.”
“And now?”
“The company doesn’t need another man deciding its future alone.”
Asha’s expression changed.
“I’m recommending you as chair,” I told her.
“You hate when I disagree with you.”
“I’ll no longer have the authority to stop you.”
“That is not an attractive benefit.”
“You earned the position.”
Asha looked away before emotion could fully reach her face.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I retain my shares. You run the company.”
“And after home confinement?”
“I’ll decide then.”
Jayla took my hand.
“You’re giving it up willingly?”
“No. I’m choosing something else.”
Her thumb moved across my knuckles.
The bailiff opened the courtroom doors.
It was time.
The judge accepted the agreement.
I admitted arranging Victor’s poisoning, concealing evidence, and using illegal surveillance to investigate his network. None of the words felt large enough to contain what I had done.
Victor deserved to die.
That remained true.
It was also true that I had appointed myself judge and executioner because revenge felt more reliable than justice.
The court could punish my choices without transforming Victor into a victim.
When the judge asked whether I accepted responsibility, I answered yes.
No explanation.
No excuse.
Jayla waited outside after my electronic monitor was attached.
She looked at the device around my ankle.
“Does this mean you can’t leave the estate?”
“I can attend court, therapy, medical appointments, and approved work.”
“Dates?”
“If submitted in advance.”
Her mouth twitched.
“Romance through government authorization.”
“I’ll have Asha file a request.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“You’re wearing an ankle monitor, and your first concern is scheduling dates?”
“No.”
“What’s first?”
“Whether you still want them.”
Jayla searched my face.
“You thought the plea would change my mind?”
“I admitted to ordering a man’s death.”
“You admitted that months ago.”
“This was public.”
“So?”
“People will judge you.”
“People judged me when they thought I stole the archive. They judged me when our engagement was announced and when I took off the ring. They even judged my dress this morning.”
“What was wrong with your dress?”
“Nothing. That’s the point.”
I placed my hands inside my pockets to keep from reaching for her in front of the cameras.
“Are you certain?”
“No,” she said.
My chest tightened.
Jayla stepped closer.
“I’m not certain what our life will look like. I’m not certain I’ll agree with every choice you make, and I’m definitely not certain you won’t get on my last nerve.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“It’s honest.”
She touched my face.
“But I’m certain I want the opportunity to find out.”
I kissed her palm.
Behind us, reporters shouted questions.
For once, neither of us answered them.
I visited Lenora two days later.
She remained in a guarded hospital wing while recovering from Julian’s bullet. Once medically cleared, she would face charges for murder, kidnapping, conspiracy, trafficking, and enough additional crimes to keep several courts occupied for years.
She looked smaller without the white coat, cameras, and people carrying weapons on her behalf.
“You came alone,” she said.
“Dorian is outside.”
“You never go anywhere alone.”
“Neither did you.”
Her gaze moved toward my ankle monitor.
“The powerful Crown finally faced consequences.”
“I’m not Crown today.”
“Who are you?”
“Malachi.”
Lenora smiled sadly.
“Nia used to call you that while you slept.”
“Why did you keep my father alive?”
“Because I loved him.”
“You tortured him.”
“I hated him too.”
Both emotions could exist together.
Our family had proven that repeatedly.
“Did he ask about us?”
“Every day.”
“Did he regret giving Victor the safe-house list?”
“Yes.”
“Did he regret choosing his children?”
“No.”
That answer hurt.
I understood it anyway.
If forced to choose between Jayla and strangers, I didn’t know what I would do.
That uncertainty was why people should never hold absolute power.
“Denise’s identity remains protected,” I said.
Lenora’s eyes filled.
“The video?”
“Stored with the victims’ archive. Jayla established an independent trust. No Devereaux controls it.”
“Not even you?”
“Especially not me.”
She nodded.
“Evelyn would like that.”
“You tried to kill her granddaughter.”
“I know.”
“You used Simone.”
“I believed she would understand.”
“You believed her pain belonged to you.”
Lenora looked toward the barred window.
“Will she see me?”
“No.”
That was Simone’s decision.
I simply delivered it.
“And Nia?”
“She’s rebuilding relationships with her children.”
“Did she tell you she helped me create Bishop?”
“Yes.”
My mother had confessed to gathering records, building contacts, and financing Lenora’s earliest investigations. She hadn’t participated in the murders, but her silence allowed Bishop to grow.
Nia surrendered her shares to a trust controlled equally by all five of her children.
She also provided federal investigators with everything she knew.
“What happens to you now?” Lenora asked.
“I go home.”
“To Evelyn’s heir?”
“To Jayla.”
“She’ll change you.”
“She already has.”
“No. She reminded you that you could change yourself.”
I disliked how accurately Lenora understood that.
I stood.
“Malachi.”
I stopped near the door.
“Your father’s final words were about you.”
I didn’t turn.
“What did he say?”
“He said you would carry everyone until somebody taught you how to put them down.”
My throat tightened.
“He believed that would be your mother.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No.”
Lenora smiled faintly.
“It was the artist.”
I left before she could see how deeply the words landed.
Sunday dinner happened at my estate six weeks later.
Jayla insisted we eat at one table.
Nobody liked the idea, which made her more determined.
Asha sat at the head because she was officially chair of Devereaux Holdings. Micah had assumed control of technology and security audits. Noelle created a medical foundation for survivors recovered from Victor’s network.
Simone remained in physical therapy.
She sat between Celeste’s empty chair and Nia.
The placement had been her choice.
Nia didn’t attempt to act like the years between them could be erased. She asked questions, listened, and accepted whatever answers her children gave.
Sometimes they gave her nothing.
She continued showing up.
Rochelle sat beside Imani and answered Zo?’s questions about every dish on the table. Jayla had allowed her mother into the family dinner—not back into her heart entirely, but close enough to prove the door remained unlocked.
Kenzie joined through a video call from federal custody.
She had been sentenced to fourteen months.
Jayla placed the tablet at the end of the table, where Kenzie argued with Imani about whether prison macaroni qualified as food.
Dorian watched everyone with amusement.
“You got your family in one room,” he said.
I looked around.
Nobody was bleeding.
No weapons had been drawn.
Micah and Asha were arguing over corporate budgets. Noelle kept correcting Simone’s posture. Nia was listening to Zo? explain why she needed a pony.
Jayla caught me watching.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She reached beneath the table and took my hand.
“Liar.”
I looked at our joined fingers.
“This is what I wanted.”
“I know.”
“It’s loud.”
“Families usually are.”
“I dislike it.”
“No, you don’t.”
She was right.
That remained irritating.
After dinner, Jayla led me toward my father’s old office. The furniture had been removed. Drop cloths covered the floor, and small paint containers waited near the walls.
“What is this?”
“Family therapy.”
“I already have a therapist.”
“This is different.”
She handed me a paintbrush.
Everyone entered behind us.
Simone carried gold paint. Noelle had blue. Micah chose black, and Asha complained that the supplies would damage her clothes.
Jayla pointed toward the largest wall.
“We’re making a mural.”
“I don’t paint.”
“You’re dating an artist. Learn.”
Zo? dipped both hands into red paint and pressed them against the wall.
“There. I started.”
One by one, my family added something.
Celeste’s name.
My father’s favorite song.
Denise’s protected silver star.
Evelyn’s red door.
When it was my turn, I stood before the wall without knowing what belonged there.
Jayla moved beside me.
“What do you want to paint?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s allowed.”
I looked at the family gathered behind us.
Then I painted five uneven circles beneath the red door.
One for every Devereaux child.
Simone stood beside me when I finished.
“You forgot yourself.”
“There are five.”
“You, Asha, Micah, Noelle, and me.”
I had included myself without realizing it.
Simone smiled.
It was the first time she had done so without pain reaching her eyes.
Jayla leaned against my shoulder.
I had spent my life building an empire because I believed power could prevent loss.
All it had done was give grief more rooms to hide inside.
This—painted hands, uneven circles, arguments, and people choosing to return—felt more permanent than anything I had ever owned.