Chapter 21 Elior
Elior
Three years later
Three years ago, I would have felt like I was dressing for my execution. At the time, the witness stand felt like the gallows, and Father’s attorney, the executioner.
Now, as I checked my black dress pants for cat fur, it just felt like another day.
I was a bit nervous, to be honest. I didn’t know how I’d react, or what emotions or memories would be dragged to the surface. But even so, my hands were steady. No longer did I tremble.
The small diamond ring on my left hand was a reminder that I had nothing to fear.
“You ready, cherub?” Daddy asked, his arms wrapping around me from behind, a matching ring adorning his finger.
“Yes.”
The courthouse was as loud and bright as it always was, filled with the rustling of paper, hushed conversations, and the squeaking of shoes against marble.
Daddy and I walked down the aisle, hands clasped, until he ushered me into a row towards the front.
Not long after we took our seats, the large double doors into the room opened and closed, and the crowd’s whispers quieted.
I inhaled slowly and looked.
Malachi—I was still working on calling him by his name instead of Father, a title he didn’t deserve—walked between two officers, wrists cuffed. His jumpsuit hung looser than I remembered. His hair, once meticulously kept, had thinned and gone almost entirely gray at the temples.
For most of my life, he had filled every room he entered. Even in silence, he commanded it.
Now the room swallowed him whole.
He didn’t search for me right away. His chin remained lifted, posture still attempting dignity, as if he were stepping up to a pulpit instead of a defendant’s table.
Daddy’s thumb brushed over my knuckles.
I squeezed back once.
The judge began speaking—formalities first. Case numbers. Charges. A summary of convictions already decided. Words like fraud, coercion, manslaughter, homicide, and conspiracy echoed through the room.
When the judge moved to sentencing, the room stilled completely.
“For the counts of—” The words blurred.
Multiple life sentences.
No possibility of parole.
Consecutive.
The finality of it boomed louder than any gavel strike.
I waited for something to swell in my chest—vindication, melancholy, happiness.
But all I felt was the urge to go home and curl up on the couch—just me, my husband, and our two orange balls of fluff.
I was twenty-two now.
Malachi had already controlled the first nineteen years of my life.
He wasn’t getting any more.
As if my thought had reached him, he turned his head, eyes finding me across the courtroom.
Once, that look would have owned me. I would have searched it for instruction, or approval, or love.
Now I only saw his aging skin and the frown lines etched into it.
He was ugly.
Weak.
Small.
There was no apology in his gaze, no remorse. Just a brittle sort of disbelief, as if the world had failed to recognize his divinity.
I held his stare, as if I could relay to him telepathically exactly how little I thought of him now.
And when the bailiff touched his shoulder to guide him away, he was the one who looked down first.
He was led out a side door and out of my life forever.
The courtroom slowly exhaled as people began to stand, voices returning in cautious murmurs.
Daddy leaned close, his lips brushing my temple.
“It’s done,” he whispered.
I nodded silently.
We stood together, hands still linked, and stepped back into the aisle.
Outside, the winter air bit at my cheeks and filled my chest with a sharp coolness. I paused at the top of the courthouse steps, tilting my face toward the pale sky.
Daddy’s arm wrapped around my waist as reporters called questions we didn’t answer.
And as we drove away, I didn’t look back at the courthouse.
There was nothing left there for me.
Nineteen years of my life had belonged to a man who called himself chosen. Who demanded obedience and called it love. Who would have never accepted me, even if I spent the rest of my life serving him.
Nineteen years may have belonged to him, but the last three have belonged to me.
To therapy sessions and grocery lists.
To arguments about paint colors.
To quiet mornings and breakfasts in bed.
To a diamond ring and a name I chose to take.
I was twenty-two now.
Young enough that the future feels infinite.
Old enough to understand that freedom isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic.
It’s coming home to two orange cats weaving around your ankles.
It’s kicking off shoes at the door.
It’s your husband’s hand settling at your lower back as he passes you in the kitchen.
It’s not flinching when someone raises their voice.
It’s knowing that when someone says I love you, there are no conditions attached.
Daddy pulled into our driveway and turned off the engine.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
“You okay?” he asked.
I reached across the console and laced my fingers through his, lifting our joined hands just slightly so the rings caught the light.
“Yeah. I’m more than okay,” I said, squeezing his hand. “Quiet time or Dark Daddy time?”
He grinned, his pupils expanding. “I could go for either.”