My mother did not come to the hospital to hold my hand.

Two years later.

I stood on the balcony of my penthouse apartment overlooking the Puget Sound. The air was crisp and smelled of salt and pine. I took a deep breath, feeling the healthy, steady rhythm of my new liver working perfectly inside me.

The three hundred thousand dollars had not sat idle.

Once I was fully healed, I used the money to start a boutique financial consulting firm for women escaping financial abuse. I helped victims untangle their credit from toxic family members and abusive spouses. Because of the media exposure from my trial, my firm became wildly successful overnight. I turned three hundred thousand into three million in less than twenty-four months.

I had a thriving business, a body that functioned perfectly, and a peace of mind that was absolute.

My phone buzzed on the patio table. It was Marcus Thorne. We had stayed close after the trial, eventually transitioning from a professional relationship into a romantic one. He was brilliant, fiercely protective, and treated me like an equal.

"Hey, beautiful," Marcus's deep voice came through the speaker. "Did you get the mail today?"

"Just checking it now," I said, walking back inside to the kitchen island where my assistant had left a stack of envelopes.

"There's a letter from the Washington State Department of Corrections," Marcus said. "I got a copy at the firm. I wanted to warn you before you opened it."