Epilogue #2
Her friend Anja comes over often, sometimes with Matt too, which seems to be a dynamic only they understand.
She pretends he is too grumpy and silent, and he pretends not to enjoy her sass and wit.
Either way, Ella loves going to Anja’s more often now to help with her kids, homework, and whatever else needs doing, or having her here, watching movies when I come home late from meetings.
Despite my many offers to take her back to her childhood home, she never expressed any desire to return.
I had her room emptied and packed into boxes, which did not amount to much in the first place, then stored them in the garage so she could pick and choose what she wanted to keep.
Once she had retrieved a few books, a small collection of dried flowers, a partly erased bookmark with a butterfly on it, a light blue sweater, and a photograph of her mom, she asked me if we could burn the rest. So I took the two remaining boxes and emptied them into the fireplace.
She knelt there and watched her bedsheets and dismantled books burn - the ones too damaged to be saved, and I suppose that was it.
On my part, my narcissistic nature had convinced me I had it all figured out after Cole died and Ella began coming out of her shell.
It took a ton of migraines and nightmares for me to understand I was not over the shot I took the night of the ball.
It was close. Too close. One breath gone wrong, one twitch of my finger and I would have shot her instead of him.
At night, when she is asleep beside me, her brows unfurled as if nothing in the world could disturb the peace she has fought so hard to earn, I still see her throat covered in blood.
And I promise myself, over and over, that I will never let her be in that position again.
I have to live with it, knowing I chose to take the shot because it was the best of the worst options.
Ella has never resented me for it, so I carry enough resentment for both of us.
I have knelt so many times in our bedroom, murmuring apologies against her buttery-soft skin, wishing she would never hate me for what I did.
I suppose it is one of those memories I will always keep, the sight of her life held at the end of my barrel, and the amount of fear it took from me to pull the trigger.
As for Ashford Holdings, Nate and I saved the company and developed new subsidiaries abroad thanks to new investors.
It was difficult, but with time, our peers regained trust. Since Cole’s death was ruled self-defense, we never made it to trial.
The investigation spoke for itself: a hostage situation that had spiraled beyond anyone’s control.
Thankfully, the district attorney declined to pursue criminal charges against me, and I will never forget how hard Ella cried when she heard the news.
Cole’s empire crumbled before our eyes. Within months, warehouses were raided, accounts were frozen, and names that had hidden behind shell companies began appearing in indictments.
Some victims were found alive, and their testimonies allowed the investigation to widen and gain public traction.
Ella read every article about it, then asked me to donate anonymously to the families of victims who had endured something similar to what she had survived.
After the investigation, Cole Vodianov and the remaining heads of his organization were tried before a jury.
The trial lasted for weeks, and by the end of it, the evidence was overwhelming: trafficking, extortion, money laundering, kidnapping, murder, and enough additional charges to bury them several times over.
Cole was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole, while the others received sentences ranging from sixty years to life.
For the first time in decades, the Vodianov empire collapsed once and for all, and their name disappeared from Westhaven.
As for Mara Brooks, she is currently serving an eight-year prison sentence for the attempted murder of her husband through medical poisoning.
Grant’s bloodwork spoke for itself, along with the testimonies of the nurses who had cared for him.
We also secured a restraining order, and when Mara gets out, she will not be allowed anywhere near Ella for the foreseeable future.
Her stepsisters moved two states away to live with a distant relative who, according to Brenton’s report, happens to be a far more normal person with a decent teaching job.
I do not wish them harm. Only a long, colorless life filled with loneliness and remorse.
Ella said it would be good for them, to learn about the real world.
About work and what it means to be a good person.
I would not bet on it, but I guess they can only improve.
Like I said, if she had wings, I would not be surprised.
I kiss Ella’s bare shoulder, my little T-shirt thief nearly lost inside the fabric.
Her butterfly tattoo now rests over her shoulder where another mark once lived.
Blue wings. As for me, even if she was opposed at first, I did get her name tattooed over my heart, which she never stops reminding me is, in fact, fairly gangster of me and proof that I am apparently not that uncool.
Watching her blossom has been the most rewarding thing I have experienced since we got married.
She has grown impossibly confident this past year, teasing me mercilessly with a wit I do not always see coming, and it never ceases to take my breath away.
We find ourselves laughing in bed past midnight when we both should know better and go to sleep.
Like I said.
Perspectives.
Damn good ones.
THE END